


and death shall have no dominion

by llamallamaduck



Series: the distant strains of triumph [2]
Category: Naruto, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF Dwarrow, BAMF Uchiha Itachi, Dimension Travel, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Harad, M/M, Rhûn, Slow Burn, Swearing, Worldbuilding, also we have elves and dwarves of all shapes and sizes and skincolours, because i have an OC from Harad that i love and will do good by, did i mention worldbuilding because oh my, exploring arda for fun and profit, no really in this house we play fast and loose with canon, so much swearing, you guys there are so many OCs here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llamallamaduck/pseuds/llamallamaduck
Summary: Itachi is the (not at all) small ripple in a (not at all) tranquil lake. The carefully laid plans of the Wise twist and tangle as he tramples through their webs, unseeing and unknowing.He means well, honestly.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield & Uchiha Itachi
Series: the distant strains of triumph [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025497
Comments: 358
Kudos: 456
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. the pictures with their ruddy light ( -are changed to dust and ashes white,)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The race is o'er I might have run,  
> The deeds are past I might have done,  
> And sere the wreath I might have won.
> 
> Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze;  
> The vision of departed days  
> Is vanished even as I gaze.
> 
> The pictures with their ruddy light  
> Are changed to dust and ashes white,  
> And I am left alone with night.
> 
> Excerpt from Faces in the Fire by Lewis Carrol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well - hello? What's this? A sequel?
> 
> Sure fucking seems so.
> 
> Note of warning - if you thought the last one was wacky, oh boy. This one is gonna be wild.
> 
> We have multiple continents to draw from, now. The last one ended - interestingly - and so we have again more or less a blank slate.
> 
> The romance aspect in the last story was odd. It didn't really click right - yet. I hope to god it doesn't happen again, but who even knows. Every time i get somewhere with Thorin, i need him to be terrible for plot reasons, because dear lord did Tolkien not like Dwarves. I hope this changes in this story. Realistically, tho, they're both itty bitty dwarven children, and I can't write childish romance. (i cant even write adult romance but shhhh).
> 
> Notably, i want this part of the series to be shorter. The last one was a monster of a story. I want this to be no more (please god have mercy) than 60k, and to cover some Arda-exploring perhaps, we'll see how it goes.
> 
> Like last time, i have not an smudge of an outline, not so much as a sentence. So where and what we do is a 100% in the air.
> 
> Oh, of course, for new readers, this won't make much sense (not even a little sense) unless you read the first. It's not a small ask, the last part is like, 180k words long. So. Yeah. Cheers(:
> 
> <3

The God-child saves him.

It is an alien feeling. Time and time again, Itachi saves him. With actions, with words, with touch. The God-child saves him from his Father, saves him from his duty and saves him, in the end, from death.

At the cost of his life.

Death pants at his back, but there is work to be done. He drags himself forward, ignoring the blackened, putrid flesh that was once his body. Crawl. His friend - his saviour - _Itachi_ will not be left here. No, his friend will rest under the Great Sun. They both will.

* * *

With enough will, there is always a way. He has learned that much in his years. Will, thankfully, is a resource Udayl is blessed with. Itachi is tiny - a child. His broken body is easy to bear, even if he has to crawl.

The light of the Great Sun shines from the archway. It is only motivation he needs.

* * *

He collapses into the first patch of sunlight he finds. The nature is a marvel, untouched and imposing. From this side, he can appreciate the sight of the mountain, spiralling into the heavens. The wind blows, bringing with it unfamiliar smells and sounds, but within his eyesight - a lake.

A supernatural lake. He knows this. Nature can produce many miracles. He knows when there are other forces in play.

There is no life he can hear. No sounds of birds, no buzz, no growl. Odd.

The Sands are a bit like this. It is a comforting thought. One has to look very close, indeed to find a speck of life, deep inside the dunes. The howl of the wind is similar. The sun - it is a pale imitation, but one he is deeply grateful for.

He spent who knows how many months in the cold and damp of the Mountain. To be in the dark - underground - it’s unimaginable. His father - damp little toad that he was - shone a light on the depth of his ignorance. To force his soldiers away from the Great Sun and into a smelly, unlit hole in the ground - it’s no wonder so many of his men jumped onto the nearest blade, just to escape. Trapping Ielúti, forcing them away from the sun, away from the light, Jibran’s milk-blood manifested.

The Sun is weaker here, the ground smells wrong, the air sounds angry. He would have liked to taste the salt and hear the wind one last time.

No matter. He is here, at the end, with a friend. The Narakshi trick works, as it always does. With enough will and time, pain can be made immaterial. When you’re beginning your final journey, you don’t need the physical dragging you down. Itachi is on his journey, and it’s time Udayl to start his.

* * *

Hands touch him, turn him, speak at him.

The cadence is - familiar. Nothing crude like Westeron. A dialect close to his heart, although not at all at the same time. Could it be Hwerïa?

It is likely his mind summoning up comforting noises. Hweri never left the sands, not for anything.

Pain, though, pain makes a re-appearance.

Robbers, potentially. Wild animals. Not ideal, but not unexpected. Thank you, Sha-alri, for taking Itachi before. His remains deserve dignity.

* * *

Pain - lights - water - no - _no_ -

* * *

Moments of lucidity are few and far in-between. He hoards each close to his heart. People have taken him, people with hands and voices and goals.

What they want with him is a question. Nobody wastes their strength on a stranger, not really.

Pity for them. Udayl is going to be of no value to them or anyone. The only person he has any obligation to, any will to serve, has fallen.

His sun-song awaits.

* * *

Al’më, why do you speak so? I hear but I cannot understand. Slow, friend, or not at all. Your words run away from you again.

* * *

How are you here - did they get you too? Oh, but that is a waste. You should have sold your life quickly but painfully, wild one. There is no Great Sun, no scorching rays that make your blood sing and your heart race. There is nothing here but damp, cold misery.

* * *

The beings that have him are gentle, beautiful, and entirely maddening.

Their oddly familiar appearance made him uncertain the delirium has passed. But - he is not in the habit of denying reality unless there is magic involved. These beings, they were eerily like the Hweri in body. Taller, perhaps, and much paler, subdued in form and deed. Where Hweri were passionate, flighty people, capricious and emotional - these were - calm. Washed out, he would call them, like cloth left out in the sun for too long. Their voices were pitched low, they spoke a soft, musical language that was designed for sorrowful song. Their clothes were simple, elegant draperies almost uniform in design.

He could barely tell them apart. If not for the tell-tale glow of immortality and long, pointed ears peeking out of straight pale locks, he’d think them a different species altogether. But no, the similarities were there.

The not-Hweri were also infinitely kinder than their sand-cousins. They built a hospice, out of nothing, for the two of them. Still perilously close to the infernal mystical lake, unfortunately. One by one, tents rose around them, and a sea of healers attend them at all times.

Which brings forth two points of contention. Number one. Udayl was on his way to death. He had been on the path already, before being lurched back. To be slowly healed now is not his wish, never mind the bewildering kindness and patience with which the not-Hweri coax his body to repair itself

Number two, and perhaps more worrying, is the fact that they are, for some reason, working on Itachi too.

Now. Udayl is a killer. He had killed - many more people than he could hope to remember. Sometimes he feels like he has killed about a full half of the people he has ever met. Sometimes he feels like he had killed countries-worth of men and women. Sometimes it feels like he has done nothing at all but kill, from the day his mother brought him into the world.

Point is - he knows a dead body when he sees one. He was almost completely dead himself, but Itachi, he was proper dead. He had dragged that boy on his back for over a day. He knows the child with the caved-in ribcage is dead.

Why, then, are they healing him? And how? Because, no matter how you look at it, he cannot heal. He’s dead.

( _He’s not decomposing though, is he_ , whispers the traitorous voice in his head. The pain-bringer. He had managed to strangle that particular bit of weakness in himself for a long time. Itachi had managed to revive it. He has hope now, and hope is a dangerous opponent.)

Which, yeah. A fair point. It’s been - over ten days since the not-Hweri have been begun healing him. Udayl has been careful to feign delirium so that they don’t bother with trying to talk to him. But for ten days, some sort of magical drink has been dripped down his throat, rejuvenating him and chasing the agony away. Liquid foods were administered too, and endless salves are applied, which surely have magic in them. His body is covered with burns so deep, he is sure his bones are scorched. And yet - he lives. The pain is entirely too comprehensive to try and move, but he lives.

Nothing at all makes sense. If he didn't know better, he would think his mind was spinning an elaborate tale. Unfortunately, he is aware of just how little imagination he has. What, exactly, is going on, he does not know, nor does he think he wants to. He lives until he does not. No point in worrying about it much.

* * *

Things, such as they are, come to a head. The not-Hweri start getting desperate, their calm, centred movements grow tenser by the day. He still feigns delirium or sleep most of the time. (Most of the time he need not pretend. Most of the time the miraculously healing flesh aches badly enough to twist his mind into a knot of pain and fear-mirages. Their healing salves and medicine can do little to rip him out of the horrors of his own mind.)

The source of their worry is easy to point to. Whatever fool hope they had, whatever banal reason they had to try and heal a (not decomposing) corpse, it’s slowly being shaken. Try as they might, little ribs are still hopelessly shattered, little skull is caved in and, most tellingly, the little heart is pulverized by the blow. Even if they had some unholy magic to stuff his soul into the broken little body, the boy would just die again.

* * *

If anyone had consulted him - which, okay, understandable that they did not, considering - he would have explained that taking a God-child near such an obviously magical lake was a bad idea.

Nobody ever asks Udayl about these things.

The not-Hwereth takes his friend to the lake - presumably to wash him - and the predictable thing happens. (Well, predictable to Udayl).

Udayl was - not near perhaps, but close enough that he heard the girl’s scream loud and clear. The noises were difficult to draw conclusions from, but the thing that stood out was the marked lack of bodies diving into the water.

Alright then.

Useless fucking people. Incompetence is truly the one unifying trait among all species.

With a snarl that was at least ninety per cent exasperation, he rises from his field-bed for the first time in - weeks. Pain thunders through him, alighting every nerve. Adrenaline flows on its heels, and he pants with glee. _This_. This is what he needs to heal.

His life very much on the line, he limps as fast as he can through the stunned camp. Nobody pays him any attention, which makes all sorts of sense considering the fucking lake is glowing and an entirely non-physical wind howls around the clearing.

Honestly, Godling, the _dramatics_.

His tent was close enough to the lake that even his lurching, halting steps carry him in time to be of any use. Because his friend, his saviour, floats on top of a lake that is doing its best to be as spectacular as possible. The lights thunders; the wind threatens; imaginary drum hollows.

The closer he comes to the spectacle, the stronger the supernatural thrum becomes. Breathing becomes harder, and a synthetic fear fills him. Well. Either synthetic or instinctual.

He barks out a laugh that sounds insane even to his ears. You want to scare _me_? Me, who was dragged from death against my will? You have _nothing_ , nothing at all that will scare me.

Thunder crashes - immaterial. The not-there wind howls. He just closes his eyes briefly and savours the rare moment of truly being alive.

“You will not take him,” he says. His lips wrap around the beloved language, grateful. “Whoever you are. I will not relinquish his body, not to any Gods but his own. I have heard him speak of Godly patrons. They are the only ones with a claim on my friend.”

The wind intensifies, and an impression of a displeased frown appears - in the air, in the sky. The fucking mountain frowns at him. “I will fight until I cannot. Itachi only goes with those he claimed as his own.”

Still no answer.

Well then. That has always been answer enough.

He takes in a deep breath and flashes through the fastest focusing strategies. Alright, let’s do the one where you ignore the world entirely.

The process is a delight, as expected. It’s rarely useful to ignore your environment other than your target. He has never to date been in a situation with truly only one threat. Even now - especially now considering his supernatural foes - the environment is very threatening indeed. The difference is he has no intention of surviving.

Truly he muses, as his awareness shifts and folds, this is a blessing. Instead of falling on his own blade, he gets to die in battle. That is a mercy he did not hope for.

Itachi’s body floats, little limbs spread on the water, suspended by the magic. Udayl is a dock-rat at heart, never mind the high breeding. Even half-maimed and delirious, water is hardly a worthy opponent.

The closer he gets to the body, the more effort it takes to ignore the pressure trying to crush him. It’s a truly Godly amount of power. If it wanted to, it would crush him. Why it does not, is anyone’s guess.

Water is tinged pink around him - what - _oh_. His ears are bleeding. He grins, and more red flows into the crystal lake. Ah well, more food for the fish.

The deep, easy strokes through the water are calming, even as his body struggles with the demands. Just a little more - you’re almost halfway. His limbs grow heavy, and paradoxically he grows both blistering cold and freezing hot at the same time. Or is it the other way around? It’s hard to tell. It’s all in his mind, most likely, since his body is physically not on fire. The wind howls again, and the sound of thunder in his ear increases more and more until something just - pops. His ears grow quiet, but his vision - skews. The increasingly blurry image tints purple, then blue, then yellow. Then it starts growing grey, the light dimming steadily.

Oh, vultures take you, this is all so petty. It’s not like Udayl needs his eyes to keep direction, not when he’s five meters away, and the scream of his body is a plenty good indicator. Just swim in the direction where the pain is strongest.

His eyes dim entirely, just before something that feels like a ghostly hand envelops his entire body. Wise to the ways of magicians by now, he focuses very very hard on that not being true. Right there - Itachi is right there - you can reach out and touch him -

“You will not stop me.” He growls. “I do not fear you, or anyone. Itachi belongs to those he claimed, that claimed him back.”

Something pops in his shoulders, something worrying happens to his lungs, but his hand is free -

He -

Reaches -

Out -

_W H I T E_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is - more fucked up in a lot of ways. It grew up, some. LOTR universe is, in a lot of ways, a very innocent depiction of what that world would look like. A lot of things like, politics, government, taxes and so on, are not mentioned at all. The horrifying existence of Orcs, and the implications thereof are glossed over. I mentioned a bit of that in my first story, but from my own angle as an evolutionary biologist. This story will contain some of the social implications - or that is the plan in any case. 
> 
> I am also making up Harad-culture wholesale. What that means is the following. 
> 
> Harad is Africa, basically, or the continent will become Africa in some tens of thousands of years. I am from the Balkans, history does not interest me that much, and even if we did, the education here is hilariously Eurocentric (even Balkancentric if we’re honest). So I will draw a little from what I know of African mythology. Mostly though, I will try to stay away, as I do not want to make a caricature of the culture. So I will be basing most of it on fictional desert/tropical cultures. Such as the Aiel (Wheel of Time). It will be a mishmash. Some of my Rhun will probably be stealing some of the lore from Fullmetal Alchemist (Xing). Some will be based on Avatar. Some of the Haradrim countries will be also based on Fullmetal Alchemixt (Xerxes, which itself was based on Persia). You see my point - I don’t dare base it on real history, because I know very fucking little about real history, and I do not dare trust what I know because it’s ridiculously biased. 
> 
> As for the terminology - it will be a mix. For Umbari language, I will mishmash Arabic words, with a little Farsi, and a little Sindarin. I dont want to use directly Arabic words (although I have in the first story and I will correct it as soon as possible) as that would be disrespectful. (Also I do not speak Arabic, so I risk going down the hilariously ignorant path of John Wick, where the writers wanted to have his nickname mean the boogyman, and they named him Baba Yaga, which is the term for an old, very female witch in Slavic folklore who eats children. Baba means grandmother. It’s very funny.) 
> 
> As for themes. There will be some fucked up themes, I’m not gonna lie. Slavery is a thing, in Umbar, and parts of Harad. There will be a lot of, ah, grossness in regards to breeding programs and such. Nothing will be explicit, of course, but it will be present. That is the trauma that will be explored.


	2. not to desire, to admit, to adore, ( - casting the robe of the soul that you wore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not to desire, to admit, to adore,  
> Casting the robe of the soul that you wore  
> Just as the soul casts the body's robe down.  
> This is man's destiny, this is man's crown.  
> This is the splendour, the end of the feast;  
> This is the light of the Star in the East.

‘You blessed idiot’ are the first words Udayl hears - the very next moment. No, really, one moment - death, pain, complete physical annihilation. The next - pillows, light and a familiarly impossible voice in his ears.

“I did not expect to see you here, friend.” Udayl speaks truth. Itachi spoke fondly of his supernatural family. Udayl was destined to the sun, for better or for worse. His people - his real people, not the milk-blooded invaders that tried their best to stamp out any notion of pride and worth - do not worry overmuch what happens after death. Still, he imagined more fire and judgment.

“Speak Westeron, Udayl. Or better yet, do not speak at all. Let me bask in the air here, up on the moral high-ground.”

“Why - wait. Do you mean to tell me there are different languages in _death_?” Will he never be free of Westeron?

“Wha - no! Neither of us is dead. Anymore. Well. I do not know, if I am honest. I died, certainly, and then I was - remade I suppose. You - I don’t know. Half-and-half? I can tell you this - if someone tells you they know what happens when you die, be certain they are lying. I’ve died a fair few times now, and let me tell you, it’s never been the same.”

“Why must you always be so irritating, brat?” How many times could the Godling have died? He’s so young, and so strong. The Fire-demon was one thing, but there can’t be that many of them.

It is none of his business. The bratling is dead, still, never mind what his ears are telling him.

“Udayl, my friend, you fought Aulë the Smith for the right to my body. You got yourself so thoroughly damaged, that re-forging you was almost as much work as re-forging me. And I didn’t even go through weeks of therapy by the Elves.”

He should really open his eyes and glare at the bratling. On the other hand, opening his eyes is a sure-try way to dispel the illusion. His mind is almost never this kind in its delirium. It seems rude to spurn the gift.

“The Elves being? The non-Hweri?”

“Were you treated for weeks by two different groups, you gormless giant? The Elves found our sorry remains, having been sent by their Lady. Don’t ask me how I know that, because I just do. Don’t ask me how the Lady knew that. Just - don’t ask.”

That’s fine, Udayl cares very little about where he is. What does spark a little interest is the name of the species. Elves. A twinge of old-remembered tale. Hweri didn’t speak much about where they came from, but - didn’t Amal’më mention once - Never mind that. If these Elves were Jani that Al’më spoke of, they would have even less reason to help.

“I have a pitcher of water here. I will pour it over your face if you don’t open your eyes.”

That is a strange thing for a mirage to say -

The cold water hitting his body makes his body seize, and he jumps up, eyes opening on instinct. Wha-

He’s alive. Little Itachi is alive. Somehow.

He rakes his eyes over the small body, eyes fixing unerringly on the faintly pulsing vein in the boy’s neck. If it’s a ghost, or a mirage, it’s a well-made image indeed. Udayl is no stranger to hallucinations, and knows their limitations well.

Alright, warrior, gather your courage. Inhale-Exhale. With some effort he tears his eyes away from the steadily pulsing bit of skin and drags them up up up - _the tattoos changed, what_ \- and meets pitch-black eyes.

There is life, there. A spark of intelligence, fierce indomitable will hidden behind a bone-doll’s facade. Udayl has only really known his friend in the dark, not counting that one glorious battle.

“What did you _do_?” He breathes into the silence. “My friend, what did you do - you died - I - I heard you die -”

A flash of pain, a brief twist of the mouth. Udayl needs to listen to this - whatever insanity Itachi spun this time - but he also can’t stop drinking in the minute twitches of muscles under too-pale skin; the rise and fall of the small bare chest; the way the dark hair almost absorbs the sun-rays.

“It was not me.” Itachi says. “I do not remember everything. But I know I died and Father gave me a choice. Stay, with him, or be re-cast. There were some other things, I suspect, some tests and prices and such. In the end I must have chosen life, because here I am.”

That is - His mind stalls. He understands the shape of the words, ugly thought they might be. It doesn’t make it any easier to understand what they mean.

“Your Gods - sent you back? Re-sung your flesh?”

“Singing?” Says Itachi, leaning forward eyes flashing in interest. “Yes - yes that is exactly it. I - there was a song - a golden, ticklish song - and then fire and earth and love and pain -”

The hazy far-away expression sharpens. “And then a great big oaf crashed into it with nothing but bullheadedness. I remember that much. You crashed into my re-birth, you cretin! What were you thinking!”

He did - what?

Alright, let’s improvise.

“First of all, brat, your rebirth happened on top of a magical lake, in plain view of everyone. Your exibitionist ways are one thing, and something I have learned to live with. But if your Gods cannot find a better location for reforging your soul than out in the open where anyone can see, then you only have yourselves to blame.”

Itachi puffs out in outrage. Like a little sand-lizard. It’s adorable.

“Second of all-” he says, interrupting whatever impassioned defense the boy thinks to raise. “Your Gods could have explained. I asked, three times. If they just explained that they have a claim on you, then I would have stopped.”

“Who else would have wanted my sorry remains?” Itachi throws his body back, hands twitching, but Udayl sees laughter in the corners of his eyes and the muscles twitching in the corners of his lips.

He makes sure his answering grimace is the picture of indignant offense. “Who knows. I should have guessed, perhaps, that the Gods you claim would be as flashy as you are.”

The two remain in silence for a series of long moments, before they break down into overwhelmed laughter.

“No, but really,” Udayl says after a little while. “How am I alive? You, I understand. Your relationship with the supernatural has always been significant. But me? I was done. Fallen in defense of my friend. Did the Sha-alri not want me?”

Itachi shrugs, suddenly smaller, younger. It’s not the unbeatable, unbreakable warrior that answers. “I do not know. I think - I think Father - might have, ah, misunderstand our relationship. You are not the first man I asked Him to heal. And you were not - technically - dead, I think. So he - fixed you. And maybe bound you to me.”

The words enter his ears, rattle around in the suddenly empty head, and fizzle out like so much smoke.

“Why not?” He asks the world, for want of anything else. “Why not this. What, then, am I to be? Your servant?” Not that he would mind, in truth. He has been in service to another from conception to death. And Itachi looks to be a kind Master.

Itachi recoils, as if stabbed. “No - of course not - Udayl, my friend - my brother - you will never serve anyone - not ever -”

Fondness mixes with exasperation. It suits the boy, to be this stuttering, spluttering disaster. Whatever species, whatever magic brought him into the world, it is obvious the boy is young, still. Much more obvious here, under the light of the day. In the dark of the mountain, with both of them half-dead with pain and hunger, it was easier to ignore how painfully young Itachi still is.

“How old are you again?” He interrupts the frenzied, confused monologue. “Yes, yes, I appreciate your kind defense of my autonomy, and I am very grateful. But you said, before, that you were my age.”

Itachi wilts in relief. Visibly, physically, he slumps, his face slackens, his shoulders droop. He looks like a melted wax-figure of himself. “You had me worried, you great oaf! And I am too your age. By our best estimates, I am between fifty and sixty years old. Entirely too old to be upset so much. My old heart Udayl. My heart can’t take this.”

“And what are you, exactly?” Before now, he thought a Hwereth and a Qaz’aug had finally gotten over themselves and had a hybrid baby. Now, though…

Itachi has a curious overreaction. He flinches, jerks and droops all at once. He opens his mouth once, as if to speak, and closes them again. Once, twice, there times the Godling fails to speak.

“You realize I do not care that much?” He can’t quite keep the incredulous note from his voice. “You are what you are. It matters very little to me.”

Itachi looks at him with a wealth of confused apprehension. “I am - raw still. You - you and Maat. You pulled me back. You - I feel you. It is - Hard.”

And Udayl is stumped, yet again. He is not used to feeling this off balance, this confused. His world was blessedly simple for a long time. There was his duty, there were his men, and the precious few moments of life in between, where his blood sang and his life-coin was spinning in the air.

“I am - sorry?” He tries. “I would not want to feel myself. It is a bleak thing, my spirit.”

“It is not.” The confusion and the fear is erased in a blink. The little fire-sprite is capricious, today. “You are just. A lot. You thoughts are - dense and heavy. Intense.”

Right.

“I do not feel you.”

“You will.” Itachi says, with a deep, miserable certainty. “And you will not be made happy with it.”

Udayl feels a ray of curiosity shine inside of him. It is most likely not going to happen. Whatever the connection is, however Itachi chooses to interpret it, it is clear to him. The God’s bound Udayl to Itachi, and not the other way around. The wielder need not feel the blade. That would be impractical.“I would like to know you, friend. But there is no need to rush things. We are to be alive, wherever we are. There is no sense in dwelling on these things.”

Itachi huffs out a breath. “The two of you. I swear.”

“Two?”

The Godling’s lips stretch into an absolutely brattish smile. “You and Maat. You are both my brothers now. Isn’t that fun?”

He twitches a little. The fucking mouse.

“You are free to claim your brothers as you would, my friend. But so do I. Your mouse-Maat is yours to do with what you will. I will have no part of it.”

“You will love him.” Says Itachi. “You will. Soon.”

He huffs. “I have not loved anyone in a very long time.” With practiced ease he strangles the memories that threaten to rise from the swamp in the back of his mind.

Itachi - flinches. Huh, he might really be feeling what he is. Shame.

“Your Gods, they are not kind.” Udayl settles on, for lack of something meaningful to say. “I would not want this for you.”

Itachi tilts his head, another one of those childish, wildling gestures. “My Father saw fit to bless me with not one, but two brothers. I have the power to feel your heart beat in my soul, to know when you are happy and when you are in pain. To always know you are alive. That is more than I would ever dare ask. Do not mistake this for regret.”

Brother. That word again.

“I have had brothers, Itachi. If I were the type to pray, I would do so in hopes you will never be one of them.” Even his impressive skill at self-repression can’t stop this. Most of the pain and heartache in his life had been a direct cause from one of his siblings.

_They’re all dead now._ The mantra is just as worthless now as it was before. _They are all dead now. You are alive. They are dead._

Itachi doesn’t flinch this time. The flighty little imp - solidifies instead. Stills for a long moment, black eyes unfathomable, unseeing and all-knowing.

“No, I don’t imagine you have much use for brothers.” He says after a long pause. His voice is - huh. He had not heard this particular tone before. Its calm, collected. Certain. Dangerous.

“Tell me,” Itachi says after a beat of silence. “Do you have any particular burning desire to return to Umbar?”

Udayl snorts. “Why would I? I have no love for that place. Nothing good survives there. If I were to return, I would remain in the sands, and pester the Hweri until the end of my days. Which would not be very long.” That is a lie. Amal’më would never kill him. Not really.

Some of the stillness crumbles of his friend, but only the surface. The boy is still knife-sharp inside. “Would you stay, then? Here? With me?”

He blinks, taken aback. “I thought that was-” What’s that word, winds take the awkward Westeron. “Implied. I am yours now. I have given my men to your Dwarves. I have died for you. Of course I will stay. You could not send me away even if you wanted to.”

Itachi smiles at him, a smug, possessive smile, as his eyes flash red. The commas spin, the blood seals whatever deal the child thinks he’s made.

So flashy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys: question. I don’t know myself soooo - a poll of a sort. 
> 
> Do you think it would be best to include the Haradrim terms I mention in like the footnotes or the A/N at the end or something like that? Or do you think it’s best to leave them as it is, and then you learn what they mean as the story progresses, as Itachi learns them? 
> 
> I can’t decide. Like, if this were a book, a proper published bit of fiction, I would go without a glossary. Cause people who read genre fiction more or less know what they’re getting into. If they read epic fiction/fantasy, they know they’re in for a lot of world building and they’re prepared for the steep learning curve
> 
> For fanfiction, by god, the readers here as a rule do not want any learning curve. Like, as a fan fiction reader, I know a large part of the appeal is that I already know the characters (a bit) and I know the setting (a bit) and I enjoy the endless ways those elements can be recombined into separate stories. So I dont know - do you want to have a glossary, an ever expanding dictionary of terms, or do you want to learn them as the story progresses? 
> 
> xx


	3. this is the Hour of Lead-- ( - remembered, if outlived,)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After great pain, a formal feeling comes--  
> The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Toombs--  
> The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,  
> And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
> 
> The Feet, mechanical, go round--  
> Of Ground, or Air, or Ought--  
> A Wooden way  
> Regardless grown,  
> A Quartz contentment, like a stone--
> 
> This is the Hour of Lead--  
> Remembered, if outlived,  
> As Freezing persons recollect the Snow--  
> First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go--
> 
> After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes  
> Emily Dickinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So warnings: Some pretty fucked up themes ahead. Ugh, some sexual violence very obliquely mentioned. Violence. Umm. Trauma generally. And like, not really addressed properly. Does that make it worse - I think it makes it worse.

Itachi’s head throbs in a manner he never thought possible. There is simply - too much happening at the same time. His body feels too small, his skin itches, his blood sings of pain and fear and violence. But also of hope and relief and love. Desperate, heartbroken love.

Most of these emotions are not his, he knows. The deeper, violent notes are likely his Udayl. _his-his-his_. His newest soul-brother is a macabre masterpiece. A soul of a philosopher twisted into a killer. He feels him, deep down, in his blood and bones. His own violence rises to meet it, and so Itachi is reduced to a sorry state.

Maat is there too. Sweet, kind Maat who almost died, with Itachi. Again. Their souls were twisted together so tightly, that when his own went to Father’s Halls, Maat’s tried to follow. Unfortunately, as Udayl can attest, men are not welcome in Father’s Halls.

(Udayl almost succeeded, he thinks hysterically. Itachi's mad, brave maniac of a brother almost brazened his way into Father’s soul-forge.)

Maat’s soul - wandered. His body slept, while Maat’s soul searched for Itachi, and could not find him.

What has he done? What has been done to these men - he had not meant to -

( _Did you not,_ whispers the Uchiha-mad part of his mind. _Did you not want to take your People and tie them down, bind them to yourself, until they cannot hope to escape you? Until they will not even wish to?_ )

He shuts that part down with great prejudice. He doesn’t need any extra lunacy now.

(There is little but lunacy left. He cannot - He cannot keep dying and coming back. He is fraying at the edges. A mortal body cannot endure so much Godly intervention. His soul was crafted once, to suit one life. One body. It cannot sustain this.)

( _You chose,_ his mind mocks. _Father asked - Mother asked - and you chose. What did you think would happen? That you get to - simply live? There is a price, always. You are no immortal. You are simply undying._ )

Udayl watches him, content to remain quiet, while Itachi works through whatever fit he’s in. He can feel the man’s languid curiosity, tinted perhaps with a bit of concern.

(There is an Udayl-shaped ocean of rage, there. An ocean of crimson, bitter despair. That his brother is even passingly functional is the result of the strength of his intellect, on the ironclad control he has over his mind.)

“Where are we exactly?” He says, desperate to focus on something that is not his overflowing mind. A spark of something - a memory. Foreign knowledge slams into his mind - how does he know this - how-how-how. No - stop this. “No, wait I know this. Lothlorien.”

Udayl doesn’t comment but conveys his absolute lack of concern very well.

“I have a friend, here.” It will be a balm to see Silevon again. If he is, indeed here.

“You have many friends, for a child who has never left that cursed mountain.”

“Bite your tongue.” He snaps, on automatic. “Khazad-dum is the finest Fortress in Arda, and I will hear no word against it.”

Udayl looks at him like he has just declared his passionate sexual relationship with an oyster. “It is underground, Godling. It is - incomprehensibly cursed.”

A searing cascade of memories jumps up from his battered mind. Udayl’s thoughts. Impressions. A great desert - joy, fear, awe. A never-ending expanse of water - danger, home, death.

That’s right. Udayl’s people worship the Sun. He’s probably never been bellow ground until now.

Another wave of memories threaten to overtake him again, and he - has - had - enough.

“Alright. _Alright_. Let us. Stop.”

Udayl blinks at him, deliberate and unhurried.

“I need to meditate. My mind. Is. Too small. For all of us.”

* * *

Itachi knows meditation. Sometimes it feels he has meditated more than he had done anything else. One way or another very rarely does a day go by without at least some time to organize his mind, to tighten the locks on some things, and fan the fires underneath others.

Itachi doesn’t know what to do with this.

His mind - is shattered. His well-organized Chaka-enforced mind-scape is a hollow, fractured, space. No - not at all - it’s a whirlwind of different colours, textures and sounds. No - it’s a meteor shower - a blizzard - a fire - a hurricane

_Calm_. Calm. Breathe. In and out - In and out -

It wasn’t like this - before. The first couple of times he died, his mind was his own.

(Was it? Or were you patching it up desperately as you went along?)

Even when Maat came -

(What happened when Maat came? You locked it down. You blocked him away. Your bother - and you ignored him.)

Stop it!

Breathe. In and out.

Well - there are benefits to starting fresh. His soul might be welded together by others, and a puny human mind might not have been designed to accommodate all of that. But! He has advantages. Chakra is one. His Father’s work is another. There is simply no way the Father is - mistaken. No way. If he had welded two souls to his own, he has done so in a way that would work.

So - start from scratch. His previous visualization was an abstract, three-dimensional, highly conceptual thing. That won’t work, anymore. He feels his soul shrieking for peace, quiet and stability. He needs a solid foundation from which to work.

A mountain - A good third of his mind shrieks at him in displeasure. The second third trembles in fear.

Alright, no mountain.

He has no special love of the outside, however. The sight of the bare sky terrifies him still. The remaining third of his mind hisses in alarm when he even thinks about a wide-open sky and a hot sun bearing down on them.

Honestly.

A castle? Underwhelming. All three parts of him are too - wild. Too uncivilized, deep down, to be content with anything other than nature.

A forest. The fierce-heart nods, approvingly. There were beautiful Jungles, at the northern parts of his homeland. The kind-heart relaxes, gratefully. He had never formed any particularly bad memories in forests. He was saved, in a forest. The loyal-heart accepts, guiltily. He should not love forests, not as much as he does. He was mistreated and manipulated and betrayed in the forest-village. He does, still. He loves them, cherishes them.

Alright, a forest it is.

That one decision is enough for the blizzard/inferno/hurricane to quiet down some. A beginning is not nothing. A solid foundation, a place to start. The rest will develop. He is not a stupid man/dwarf/elf/shinobi. He has motivation aplenty and time enough.

It would be best if Silevon didn’t see him this insane, after all these years.

* * *

He resurfaces sometime later - hours, most likely, and finally feels human enough - _hah_ \- to observe, to see, to think. The time of before - the strange cyclical conversation, desperate attempt at banter - it seems a dream.

It wasn’t, he knows, because Udayl, his new soul-bonded (brother-brother-brother) lays where he was, long body stretched in a deceptive pose of relaxation. He is not - not relaxed, not at all. He is alert, tense and ready to spring.

He is also almost entirely naked. Itachi blinks, blinks again. He did not notice before, but his - companion - only wears thin white shorts, that stand out on his dark bronze body.

He looks down on himself. He sits - on a bed? Large, soft mattress filled with - something with just the right amount of give to be supportive and comfortable. He is also, as it happens, almost entirely naked. Instead of shorts, his bottom half is covered with loose white trousers of some sort, falling to mid-calf.

His brain pulses at him warningly, and he stops going around in circles. So he didn’t notice. Understandable. He just got resurrected for the umpteenth time and had yet another conciseness stuffed into himself. He can be excused some absent-mindedness.

Not anymore, however. They have been left alone for some reason, for hours now. They will not be for much longer. (Unless, hisses the distrustful part of his mind, unless we are prisoners). With renewed determination, he tears his eyes away from the blank appraisal of his fucking trousers and moves on to more pressing matters. Such as his brother’s condition.

Udayl seems - hale and healthy, from what he can see. His wounds are healed, of course. More interesting, is the band of runes snaking around his torso once, twice, three times, disappearing under his underthings, and resurfacing around his leg. The irregular width and concentration suggest - something important.

“Are you finished?” Says Udayl. Smoke-eyes crack open a tad, providing a stark contrast against his dark skin.

For a long moment, Itachi’s blown out mind can focus on nothing else but the feline cut of the pale eyes, and the calculating sharpness in them, constantly suggesting violence is not only an acceptable option but a preferred one. His Sharingan, he thinks, would be white.

“Not at all.” He says absently. “Have you come to any conclusions about the new additions to your body?”

Udayl looks at him, properly looks, judging the question to deserve his full attention. “I assume they are work of your God. They replaced the burns.”

“Maat has something similar.” He says, studying the marks with not a little fascination. “I healed him - with a child of mine -”

“ _What_?”

Udayl’s voice drops yet another octave, and the raspy quality of his voice smoothes out, into a silky, ice-cold consistency of poison. It rings every alarm-bell he has, and Itachi’s back straightens as he expands the little Chakra his body has to his environment. Is there a threat - did his brother sense something -

“A child, Itachi. _What child_?”

Oh for fucks sake -

“My rune-child.” He says, melting back into his bed. “Not an actual child. I carved, enchanted some stones. Infused them with my life force over a decade. They became - alive in a sense. I consider them my stone-children.”

Udayl inhales sharply and exhales, closing his eyes. “Good. Good.”

Itachi’s newly made mental barriers quake, impacted by a hurricane of - terrible Goddamn trauma. Like everything in his brothers’ lives, even children have somehow become a source of misery and despair. He tries to shut it away, but can’t help getting a few glimpses -

His stomach rolls, abdominal muscles clenching fruitlessly. His head spins and a mix of fear and rage alights his eyes until he’s panting with pent-up rage. How - how dare they - even the Hokage never -

Well, alright, the Hokage had very much enabled sexual exploitation of children in his ranks but - never - never like that - never to _breed_ -

Deep breath. Inhale - exhale.

Be careful, now. Your words - they can hurt. They can shame and indicate a lack of willingness to help. You might burn a bridge before you so much step on it, and you have harmed enough brothers.

“I would like to speak about this,” he says, forming each word with care and determination. “But not now. I am.” Inhale-exhale. “Not stable, still. You have lived. A difficult, cruel life. It distresses me. That you were put through that.”

Udayl, thank the gods, doesn’t look traumatized by his bumbling attempts at being supportive. Instead, he looks - contemplative. “You have too, I think.”

“Not in this life.” Its blessedly easy to admit to it - Udayl will see it all, soon. Just as he will live through Udayl’s life, he will live through Itachi’s. The very nature of soul-bonds precludes secrets. It would make for interesting developments, as they live their lives. “And yes, you and I, we have had some similar life experiences. You’ve dealt with yours with considerably more grace, however.”

Udayl hums but doesn’t comment, observing him instead. It is difficult a lot of the times, to consider the man is almost sixty years old. He doesn’t look it - whatever his ancestry is, he is blessed with a longer life than humans are afforded. He looks to be - thirty perhaps, not more.

“You are very young.” He says in the end. “In spirit. Your kind, whatever it is, is meant to be long-lived. You might be my age in body, but you are young still.”

“I haven’t been young in spirit since I was six years old.” He says - perhaps a little cynically.

Udayl quirks a small smile. “I know that is not true. Putting children in battle does not make them adults. It just makes them children in battle. Your Dwarves may believe you. I know better.”

He would too.

“Fair.” He concedes. “A fair point, well made.” A pause. “You are, after all, very old.”

Udayl’s small smile does not waver but he inclines his head, accepting the offering for what it is. “I feel every one of my years when I am near you, bratling. Now - enough stalling. Aside from what are we, the more important question is where are we? And why are we still here?”

“Can you move? Because I can’t. I’m exhausted beyond measure.” He pauses, considers. “Well. I could. If, say, there was an ancient fire demon somewhere around that was going to eat my soul. I could run then.”

Udayl barks out a sharp laugh. “No need to lie, Godling. You would not run even then. You would fight it and any other monster the world thinks to throw at you.”

“Hey, now.” He says. “That is not fair. I try to befriend at least half of my enemies. It has worked well for me. Much better than simply trying to kill them all.” A small pause. “Except Orcs,” he concedes. “They can go die in a fire.”

“Are you calling me a monster little red?” Udayl grins, and he looks unbothered but…

“I am - not?” He says, keeping his voice as clear as possible. “You were my enemy. That is just the truth. You nearly killed me. I nearly killed you. So - enemies.”

Udayl throws his arms back and arches into a stretch. He’s shockingly bendy considering all that bulk. His neck was practically the width of Itachi’s waist. “That was a glorious battle. We should fight again soon.”

Itachi smiles, a little brokenly. “I am sorry, friend.” Brother. “But I will never raise my blades to you with the intent to harm. Not ever. Not again.”

Udayl looks at him silently for a moment. “The story there is unpleasant. I have to say I am surprised. I cannot imagine you harming family.”

He doesn’t avert his eyes from the curious grey. “I’ve killed my entire family once. On my leaders’ orders, I slaughtered - hundreds of people. My entire Clan. The old, the weak, the infirm. The infants. All of them but for my brother who I’ve tortured into insanity so that he would be sure to end my miserable life.”

Udayl looks taken aback and then considering as if trying to fit the piece into his image of Itachi. “You were more like Fari than I would have guessed. That is - sad.” He doesn’t offer any condolences. Itachi is almost certain he has forgotten that condolences are something people do.

“Fari?”

Udayl hums, eyes far away. He’s not grieved, but the memory pains him on some level. (It’s entirely possible that this is a deliberate offering - a painful truth for a painful truth.)

“Fariyar. He was one of the Captains in Jibran’s army. The first non-magic user to do so. I was the second.”

Aaah, the Masochist.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He huffs, a low displeased noise. “Someone should know him. He was - a tragedy. I loved him, once. As strongly as young children can love, I loved him. I proposed to him when I was four. He was older than me by a few years and from a well-respected upper-class family. I was the homeless son of a whore. He could have had me killed, for the offence. He didn’t. He laughed, and gave me a flower.”

God fucking damn it, the Gods were cruel to tie this man up into so many knots.

“Then, life happened. I turned not to be a dock-rat but one of many children of the Canótaran. Fari’s studies led him into fanaticism. He was - everything I wanted to be, once. Handsome, strong, a wordsmith without compare. But - one way or another he ended up becoming Jibran’s most fanatical follower.”

The more he listens, the less he is sure Udayl is telling this story just to unburden himself. It echoes too well with Itachi’s own miserable life.

Udayl still isn’t seeing reality, lost in memory. “A well-loved child of a well-respected wealthy family. His mother was a philosopher-poet, adored by the masses. His father crafter the most incredible musical instruments seen in Umbar. Their status afforded them some protection. It was understood they could speak casual treason, without it being made into an issue. Even Jibran wouldn’t dare, not to one of the wealthiest families in Umbar.” Helpless rage shines from Udayl’s eyes, which Itachi suspects is the closest the man can come to pure grief.

“They were safe from Jibran, but not from their own son. By then, I was already - brought to the Palace. I know nobody ordered it - and yet. Fari - Fariyar - brought Jibran their heads as tribute. Donated all their wealth and material possessions to Jibran’s private household. The only thing he begged for was to be of use to him. Of use in his Holy Mission.”

The silence stretches - one minute, two. On the third minute, Itachi figures Udayl has said his piece.

“When I first saw you,” Itachi says. “I named you Nihilist because you looked like you wanted nothing from life. Like you believed in nothing, wanted nothing, had nothing at all to look forward to. Your Fari, I named Masochist. Because he looked like he only needed pain.”

A huff of something - pain, laughter, anger? “Fari did not love pain.”

Itachi doesn’t comment, doesn’t even try to argue. He knows what he knows, but Udayl has known the man for decades, seems like.

“It would be better if he did. Simpler. Healthier. Fari wanted, more than anything, to be Jibran’s son.”

What?

“Oh yes,” Udayl’s lips stretch into a wide crocodile-smile. “That is his tragedy. Our tragedy, perhaps. When I had ‘proven myself’ to Jibran when he had proclaimed his firstborn.” Udayl spits the word out like a piece of rotten flesh, like a worm crawling on his tongue. “Fari became obsessed with me. He saw that Jibran tormented me relentlessly, and decided, somehow, that the suffering was part of the Holy Mission. It became his goal - to be honoured with the punishments. To be uplifted, as I was, to a higher state of understanding.”

“Did he - did he know you had once - ?”

“Of course not.” The rage dies down some, and shifts into something more cynical and a little more fond. “He was an upper-class child to the bone - much like you are. He was thoughtlessly kind to a nameless street-urchin, but not enough to remember me. No, Jibran never explained where he found me, and nobody questioned it.”

How - intricate, the cruelty went.

“Thank you for telling me this.” He says in the end. “It’s a beautiful tragedy. It deserves to be written into song.”

Udayl snarls a terrible laugh. “This is no epic tale. It is pain and misery and a valuable soul spent cheaply. Nothing that should be sung about.”

“I do not think so. Songs are not sung about glory and joy and love only. Songs are sung about truth. And your pain is true. I would write it for you if I could. I cannot.” I suspect you can, he thinks but does not say. No need to rub salt in freshly opened wounds.

“You are right,” Itachi says instead, shifting the focus from Udayl to himself. “We are similar. Your Fari broke himself in a similar way I had, once. I suspect the main difference, is that your leader saw him as inherently valuable, and knew how to keep him desperate. Keep him useful. Mine had little use for me after I had fulfilled my purpose. I imagine I would have done most anything for a scrap of affection, in those early months.”

“What changed?” Asks Udayl, and there is a note of - vulnerability there, perhaps. Or it is just Itachi reading his surface emotions. Ah. He wants to know if there was something he could have done to change his Fari’s mind.

(A spark of jealousy threatens to develop into something bigger before he smothers it desperately. The last thing he wants to do is to be jealous of his brother’s once maybe love that Itachi has, in fact, killed himself.)

“Nothing changed. I died, insane. Killed by my little brother, who had barely survived the torment I had put him through in the name of making him strong. Father snatched my soul from hell presumably, reforged it, eliminating all the impurities and stuffed me into this body. I had a few decades in solitude to get used to the lack of screaming voices ordering me to die.”

And now I died again, he adds to himself, somehow feeling like he wants to cry. Father brought me back, again. We will see how long it takes me to patch up this time.

* * *


	4. you declare you see me dimly (-through a glass which will not shine,)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You declare you see me dimly  
> through a glass which will not shine,  
> though I stand before you boldly,  
> trim in rank and marking time.  
> You do own to hear me faintly  
> as a whisper out of range,  
> while my drums beat out the message  
> and the rhythms never change.
> 
> Excertp from Maya Angelou, Equality.

They’re not, as it happens prisoners. 

* * *

Conversation kind of peters out from gruesome discussions of death and the inevitable downfall of insanity. Itachi is still held together with spit and prayer. Udayl is - fuck knows what. Alive, more or less against his will. Untethered. Like a missing-nin, a weapon without direction. 

“Do you have a focusing technique?” Itachi asks, echoing Lady Darla’s words. Fuck, the conversation happened a month ago more or less, and it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Well, he prevaricates. That was a bad choice of words. 

Udayl ignores him with feline dignity and settles back into his bed, eyes closed and body tense. 

Alright, then. 

* * *

Itachi senses the Elves some time before they arrive. Because - they wink into existence. From nothing. Do these Elves have Wards? It sure seems so, because two out of the two - six- twelve - fourteen Chakra signatures are - Kage-level if anything. 

“The Elves are coming.” He says to Udayl. “Do we have any weapons?” 

How the fuck, he adds to himself, honestly shocked stupid, did I not check to see where we are? I have been awake for more than twelve hours now, and not once did I stand from my comfortable bed. There are options - were options. A novel fact-finding method of looking out of the fucking window would have been a roaring success. 

“Little red, I am not convinced we are alive.” Says Udayl, with a worrying lack of investment either way. “I am miraculously healed, you are miraculously healed, and we have been found by allies. None of that is in any way likely.” 

Itachi’s thoughts stumble over the unforeseen tripwire of his companion's lack of sanity. 

“Udayl, please,” he says urgently. “I do not think these Elves will harm us but - there are many of them and two of us, and two of them are old. Old and powerful. We need to be able to run because we cannot fight them.” 

Grey eyes flash his way, with a glint of interest. “Oh?”

Of course. Of course, the maniac only cares about the potential fight. 

“Never mind.” He stands from the bed

\- a wave of dizziness hits him, a sense of vertigo so strong he tries instinctively to stick himself to the floor with Chakra. His entire body seizes, wha - 

Udayl plucks him from the ground with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Must you do this, bratling? Why would you think you can resurrect without consequences?” 

It takes him a couple of moments to find his tongue. In the meantime, Udayl deposited his sorry hide into his own bed and wrapped him up in a sheet like an infant. It should be demeaning, but Itachi has never been what one would call stable. He melts into the physical comfort, eyes falling half-closed. 

Well, he tells himself rather reasonably. If you didn’t have a phobia of touch, maybe you wouldn’t be as touch starved. It’s perhaps a tad unreasonable to only allow your soul-bonded to touch you without consequence. 

“I may have misjudged that.” He says after a moment. “My body and Chakra-system seem to be fairly new.” 

“Yes, I noticed.” There is a wealth of exasperation in Udayl's voice. “Your skull is whole, notably.” 

“Yes, well.” He starts to say something, likely witty and cutting, but he’s interrupted by the Elven continent that starts pouring in through the doorway. 

The guards are first. Six tall, blonde, damn near identical elves, armed to the teeth, sharp-eyed and radiating grim resignation of soldiers willing to die right this moment.

He can sense six more coming from the back, but his attention is hopelessly snared by the two beings that glide in. 

“Udayl.” He says faintly. “If we get murdered while I’m swaddled in a Father forsaken bedsheet, you will rue the day you have met me.” 

“Nobody is murdering you, little red.” The wealth of unconcern in his voice is disconcerting, considering the two elf-shaped Bijū that casually strolled into their room. Then again, this is the man that fought Father for the rights to a corpse. His common sense is very much in question. 

“Indeed, that is so.” Says the - male? - Bijū. “Be greeted, friends, into the Halls of Lothlorien.” 

Itachi - determinedly not looking at the two - cranes his head as best he can to look at Udayl. 

“Are we certain this is not an illusion?” 

The sound of Udayl’s rumbling chuckles mixing with the Elven airy winter-bell mirth sends shivers down Itachi’s spine. 

“One day,” he says rebelliously. “One day it _will_ be an illusion, and I will laugh at your bleeding carcass, you brute.” He still refuses to look, refuses to consider that he is meeting Elven Nobility wrapped up in a sheet. 

A mind shifts across his own, and a searing pain pierces through his mind, spreading through his body like lightning. Udayl feels it too. His languid, uncaring sprawl shifts. Itachi feels the muscles behind him clench, as the Udayl-shaped part of his soul hisses in outrage. 

“Calm, friend.” He says under his breath. “They could not know how crowded it is in here.” 

Udayl sneers. “My head is my own, little red. I do not deserve many privileges, but this one I claim.” 

The Elven Bijū-lady steps forward, head bowing in a small bow. “Greetings, soul-bonded. I am Lady Galadriel. We have many things to talk about.” 

Itachi closes his eyes briefly, mentally shaking off the residual pain. “I apologize, Lady, that I cannot greet you as your rank deserves. My name is Itachi, of Khazad-dum.” He pauses for half a moment to see if Udayl will prove to be as obstinate as he expects him to be. “My companion,” he continues smoothly, “is Udayl, of Umbar.” 

“Strange times bring strange friends,” says the Bijū-lord. He’s the moon to his Lady’s sun, silvery, white hair falling down around uniquely feline features. Like the Lady, Itachi cannot bear to look at him for too long - and yet he can’t quite stop looking. The weight of his soul, the unabashed brightness of his spirit is almost crushing. Calling them Bijū is, perhaps, insulting, but it’s not wrong. They’re borderline divine - not Gods themselves, but avatars, perhaps. Which, in the end, is what the Bijū were - emissaries of higher divinities, sent on earth to communicate their will. “Your deeds and allegiances are clear for the world to see. The Valar have chosen their Champion and use you without mercy, God-speaker. Your actions have been felt, and not just by the wise. Slaying the Balrog has brought you forward, has made you known to many.”

Itachi parses through the words carefully. Silevon was nowhere near as - inexplicable as this Lord. He turns the words around, inspects each one, and still can’t really make sense of them. It doesn’t feel that the Lord is being cryptic on purpose. It feels more like he is just spectacularly bad at talking to those younger than ten centuries. 

“Thank you, my Lord.” He says in the end, reasonably certain he grasped the surface meaning, if not the overall message. “I dare not claim the deed. Luck won that day.” 

“Indeed, it has.” Says Lady Galadriel. “In part. The wise have felt your ripples through the fabric of our world for years. As your powers grew, so did your workings. Even then, I hesitate to claim you could have defeated a Maia, fallen or otherwise. But there were four players, and not three, at that moment. You and your friend make two. Galdad - the being you slew - makes three. The Enemy makes four.” 

Itachi fights the urge to either sigh or rub his temples - not that he can, with how tightly he’s wrapped up. _Fucking immortals_ … Udayl comes to his rescue. 

“The ring, little red. Your Dwarf-king’s ring.” 

Holy fucking shit, the ring. 

“Luck, you say,” says the Lord. His voice slows down, and a small furrow etches into the imposing brow. It seems the Lord is attempting his even best to speak as plainly as possible. “Many threads wove your tale. Many unlikely events happened at exactly the right time for this to have happened. Your deeds were no less than miraculous - for us. For you - the matter is complicated.” 

Udayl snorts - snorts! - and Itachi both marvels at his friend and despairs. On his end, his eyes stick to the Lord and won’t move. It’s not precisely infatuation, but it’s - something. He imagines a mouse feels similar when caught in the unlikely gaze of a dragon. It’s not the dragon wants to eat you, you’re entirely too insignificant for the dragon to even bother with. But for some reason, it’s looking at you, and you can’t help but look back in terrified awe. 

What were they talking about? 

“The Dark One will hunt us?” Says Udayl, eternally unimpressed. “Will hunt Itachi?” 

Lady Galadriel is easier to look at - mostly because she doesn’t even pretend to not be a terribly powerful being who would crush you with ease if she so wanted. He understands that kind of approach to life. “You are an improbability, young Itachi. The Valar favour you, they speak to you, they bless you with their words. Some would ask - why? Why you? Some would, perhaps, be envious. None of the wise can communicate with the Valar, after all. None of the Eldar have heard Them speak, and we have followed Them loyally for millennia. Why you, Dwarf-child, some would wonder. Can your power be learned, will have occurred to some. Can it be usurped?” 

The longer the Lady speaks, the more polarized Itachi’s responses get. Part of him that was wary of her sits up and starts preparing for - likely terminal - battle. There are only so many threats a Bijū-level being can make until you start taking them seriously. The other part - the more instinctual part - remains entirely calm. He trusts that part more than the rational part, in these matters. 

Udayl apparently shares his view. He doesn’t tense, doesn’t even bristle. The stream of Udayl-shaped thoughts streaming through his mind grow - complicated. They sound rusty, they taste coppery. A mean sort of satisfaction sprinkled with pity courses through him. 

“He could always ask,” Udayl says with an outwardly pleasant tone. “My Itachi. He can ask the Smith-god. So far he has had success in that arena. Do you want him to?” 

Goddamn it. 

The Lady slides her unfathomable eyes from Itachi to Udayl, and after brief wordless communication, the air lightens around her. The corner of her lips tugs upwards, as her eyes lose some of the reptilian intensity. “No, indeed not. There are only so many eccentricities the Lady of Lorien is allowed.” 

Somehow, his brain glitches and decides it is a good idea to send a faintly despairing look to the - thusfar unnamed - Lord. He looks back at him, fairly surprised, but also very amused. 

“In any case,” continues the Lady, receding back into a harmless (ha!), composed Noble persona. “You have done what we have been unable to. Galdad was a terrible opponent, and it caused us great anguish to have such darkness so close to our homes. For that, consider yourself welcome to Lorien, home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.” 

With the atmosphere becoming less charged, the tense posture of the Elven guard relaxes, and the hands hovering over weapons relax. 

“Silevon!” He says, surprising nobody more than himself. Every eye snaps to him, but he has started this conversation in the height of impropriety, and he’s not about to get upset by a little word-vomit. “I have - a friend.” He explains. “Silevon. Tall, old, well-mannered. Wears a most fetching coat.”

“Silevon is well-known in Lorien, _eldandil_.” Says the Lady. “He would be here if it were at all possible. Unfortunately, he has left for Rivendell weeks ago. Your Dwarven friends might be surprised if he succeeds in his mission to rally the Rangers to help you in your war.” 

Something about that sentence - upsets him slightly. Not just that Silevon isn’t here - he had suspected something similar had happened, or his friend would have already been here. But something in the way the Lady disavows their war, how easily she divorced her people from the Dwarven struggle against the Orcs. 

“My people.” He says a bit pointedly. “Have won this war. The Orcs ran before the Balrog. With the aid of Udayl’s men, my people would have cut them down without an issue. We have won.” 

A faint, meaningless smile plays around the Lady’s lips, but she doesn’t reply with more than an elegant nod. 

“Unlikely friendships are doubly blessed,” says Lord Celeborn. “Your victory is greater than you think. You have foiled more than one plan of the Enemy with your actions. Never in this age have Durin-folk allied themselves with men. Especially not with men who previously served the Enemy.” 

Both of them bristle in the exact same time. Udayl for the slight against his people, and Itachi for the slight against his. 

A melodious, arresting laughter rings through the room. “Forgive friends, our unintended slights. We have very few mortals come through these halls. We mean no offence - indeed we wish to express our gratitude. You have thrown the first pebble, that may yet turn into an avalanche. The stalemate of the old forces fighting for dominion across Arda has been shaken beyond repair. There is hope, suddenly, and excitement. We, Elves, might not be used to change, but we welcome it in this case.” 

Itachi subsides, mollified, but Udayl is not as easily pacified. “Harad is for the most part free, Lord and Lady. Only the very few have ever been enslaved by the invaders. Umbar is one of those few, yes, but the lands of Harad are vast. The Narakshi and the Hweri guard the sands with an unyielding passion. The Qaz’aug rule the mountains and would suffer no man to lead them one way or another. Dozens of countries, kingdoms and lands stand strong and proud and would be gravely insulted by the thought they would serve a Northerner.” 

Something familiar glints in Celeborn’s eyes - something a great deal like - 

Amaterasu preserve him, the Lord is curious. 

“Qaz’aug - that is familiar, at least in part. Would they be perhaps children of Aulë?” 

The honest curiosity dulls the sharp irritation in his friend. There is something very charming in curiosity from a being of this age and power. “The Qaz’aug are Dwarves. I know little of the land beyond Umbar - by their design. Our neighbours want little to do with Umbari, shamed as we are by our rulers. But I know some.” 

Mother’s mercy, if this Lord is this overtly curious about Udayl and his people, what will happen if Silevon gets his paws on him? Especially if what he’s come to understand about his brother's nature is true, and Udayl is really a poet at heart?

“When you are recovered, _eldandil_ , you must tell me about them. About your people, and all that you know of the rest - no matter how little. ” Says the Lord, further chipping the endless dignity with which he is shrouded. “To think after all these centuries, there is still so much more to learn.” 

“Careful, my love,” says the Lady, with a note of mischief that rings oddly through her voice, like she has had very little practice in recent years for such trivial matters. “You will scare away your primary source, and then what will you do?” 

Udayl, hiding the bafflement Itachi feels through their connection flawlessly, inclines his head slowly. “I am available, as long Itachi remains here. Where and when he leads, I follow.” 

“Which brings us neatly to the main topic of our discussion.” Lady Galadriel waves an arm absently, and the guards file out with no more than a few reluctant gazes. Itachi feels no little pity for them. They must be aware of their futility. If the two of them were anywhere near powerful enough to pose a threat to the two Elven-bijū, the guards would certainly not stop them. “Namely, your recovery and your subsequent plans. Much has changed, in recent days. More than one would think possible.” 

“My people won.” Says Itachi, blustering perhaps a little. “They must have.” 

“Indeed they have. Not easily, or quickly, but they have. Your death was felt through Middle-Earth, as well as that of the being you brought down. Elves of Lorien felt it even before - your battle shook the ground for hours. Nevertheless, the War of Dwarves and Orcs has concluded, and the last Orc was slain or has fled thirty-nine days ago.” 

Thirty-nine days - thirty-nine fucking days

He fights with himself for a long moment - then two - and then surrenders to the childish impulse to send an incredulous look to the sky. Thirty-nine days - how long does it take to - 

Udayl pokes him in the side. “Little red, I am unworthy to stand between a parent and a child. Still - I would advise against this line of thought. You were dead, brat. I was nearly there. It took however long it took.” 

Itachi subsides, wriggling his wrapped-up body until his back is pressed to Udayl’s chest, and the man gets the hint and wraps his arms around him in a loose embrace. “Yes, well. That is all very good. But my Maat - he has been - my Dwarves -” 

Wait - 

“Do you know?” He lets urgency colour his tone red. “Do you know if my Dwarves live? Thorin - a surly fellow, black-haired and blue-eyed, most princely of Dwarves. Nain - the red-headed lunatic with the armoured goat?” 

The Lady is inscrutable, and the Lord answers this time. “We have gathered little information, I am afraid. Your people would not think to send word, even if our relations weren’t as regrettably strained as they have become. We have no scouts to spare that we can send over the mountains. And even if we could order someone to go through, I am afraid that path is going to be barred for decades to come.” 

Why would - 

Oh. 

The explosion and subsequent cave-ins. 

“On the whole.” Says Lord Celeborn with every appearance of trying to be supportive and, dare he think it, encouraging. “Your Dwarves will certainly think the killing of Galdad - the Balrog - is worth a temporary loss of access to the mines.” 

Itachi blinks at him, still struggling with his scattered thoughts that tug him every which way. His recovery - his Dwarves - Udayl - Maat - the Mines - his home - 

“What we do know,” says the Lady, with a bit of force behind her airy tone. “Is that your bodies were re-made, practically in front of our eyes. Both of you stayed in the Kheled-zâram for eleven days and eleven nights. The Guards fetched you after that. You’ve slept since, minds likely recovering from your ordeal. But your bodies - as repaired as they are - are weak. Unmoored in the tapestry of the world. You need to rest and re-grow those roots. You need to entrench yourself firmly in the land of the living. The strain you feel, that is your soul bucking under the strain. You are not the first case of the Valar sending a soul back.” 

“I’m not?”, “He’s not?” He asks, in tandem with Udayl. 

“Indeed not.” Smiles the Lady. “There have been others. One such Elf still walks the Middle-earth. I dare-say he will storm whatever place you call your own, in the coming weeks. You will find a lot in common with Lord Glorfindel, I think. More pertinent to you, still, is the matter of Durin the Deathless. My dear companion over many long centuries.” 

He sits quietly for a long moment, thinking sluggishly about the Lady’s words. After a minute of deliberation, he decides hope of true understanding is fairly low. 

“This Durin the Deathless - he is not - I am not -” 

Lady Galadriel’s eyes darken as they look him over. He is - examined from the inside out, paradoxically feeling like she is starting from what he could become, and moving on to what he is, all the way to what he had been. “No.” She says, cooly. “For better or for worse, you are your own soul. I await for my friend, still.” 

“We both do.” Says Lord Celeborn, but where his lady-wife is displeased at Itachi’s audacity to not be Durin, he’s more wistful. “We are named the wise, for we remain unchaining and stalwart against the passage of time. But a soul who lives and dies and lives again, it accumulates wisdom that we could never hope to match. Elves are only ever capable of preserving and disseminating ingenuity of others. We generate little of it ourselves.” 

Sounds like a lot of excuses to him, frankly, but he inclines his head politely. “I am equally awed at my people’s ingenuity. While I cannot be your friend, I would be glad to open channels of communication between your craftspeople and my own. I am myself working toward mastery in weaving. I am not the best, certainly, but I have some tricks that perhaps remain unknown by your artists.” 

Lady Galadriel’s quiet disapproval of his person wavers, even as Lord Celeborn - brightens. “I would welcome your efforts.” He says. “But be warned. Silevon’s coat was a topic of some renown in our halls. You will not escape easily, should our youths find you amenable to taking commissions.” 

“Ah.” It would be a balm on his soul, to spend a season doing nothing more strenuous than weaving. However. “My Dwarves need me.” He says with some regret. “I have left them, as it were, without warning.” Plus, the greedy part of his mind cajoles. There is that phenomenal loom the King gave me. “I will visit?” He offers. “It would be my pleasure to serve as the Ambassador to the Khazad. At least until your friend is born again.” He makes a note to get the full story about the whole rebirthing Dwarf issue. It sounds very pertinent. However, it’s not the most important thing to do, now. “Do you by any chance have a means of communication with the Mountain? I would send word of my newly-alive state.” 

“No need.” Says Udayl, unexpectedly. “Your Mouse will surely let them know.” 

Itachi’s head throbs indignantly. “Yes, dear. Maat will surely awaken and spread the word of my survival. He will not know, however, where I am, who has me, or if I am willing to return. You may recall Thorin and I had a small disagreement last time we spoke? Remember, there was an ancient fire-demon involved?” 

Udayl shrugs, unconcerned, but gathers Itachi’s be-sheeted body a bit closer. “They will know you live. If they know you at all, they will know you will not stay away.” 

“I would insist once more,” Says Lady Galadriel, again growing bigger and more imposing. “That you remain in Lothlorien to recover. You are both _eldandili_ , elf-friends. I will not have you expire on the road like vagabonds.” 

“With all due respect, Golden Lady,” says Udayl, shifting slightly in his bed to make himself more comfortable. “Only Itachi dictates where we go, when we go, and with whom we go.” 

The Lady’s nostrils don’t flare, but they imply they would if she were the kind of Lady whose nostrils flare. Lord Celeborn, who Itachi is coming to understand is the mellow one in the relationship, hums a low chuckle. “A very nostalgic exchange, is it not, my love?” 

“Indeed.” She says, nowhere near as sanguine as her lord-husband. “And if Durin was less prone to such moments of obstinacy, maybe he wouldn’t be dying so frequently.” 

Itachi is entirely too weary to laugh, but he thinks he might have, otherwise. “I do apologize, Lady Galadriel. It is not my intent to be ungrateful for the aid you have provided us. Nevertheless - my people need me. They are alone and scared, and who will bring berries to the Dwarflings if I am away?” 

The last line lands, as he expected it to. Ha, he thinks smugly. I knew it. Nobody is immune to the charm of Dwarflings, reincarnated Shinobi or immortal Elven nobility alike. (Oh, he thinks with not a little glee. Udayl. Udayl has not yet met the Dwarflings.)

“You will do as you will.” She says grudgingly. “But if you insist on this - incredibly unwise - course of action, you will consent to the Elves organizing your trip. The mine-paths are closed to you, this much I am certain of. You will either have to travel via Imladris - Rivendell - in the north, or Isengard to the south.” 

Rivendell - that would be the home of Lord Elrond, Silevon’s dear friend and a bitter academic rival. 

“What would you recommend?” He asks, in an effort to be polite. The only responsible way is the quickest way, adds his mind. 

The Lady’s expression very much conveys the sentiment of ‘oh, now he asks’. “I would not see you travel that close to Mordor if it is at all within my power to stop you.” It is absolutely in my power to stop you is the not at all veiled subtext. Try me if you dare. “It doesn’t much matter in this case. Rivendell is closer, it is safer, and it is where you will renew your protection. My guards will follow you however far I bid them, but there is no reason to tax them unduly.” 

He sends a questioning at Udayl. His brother's stubborn disavowal of autonomy was a fine crutch, but it worked against them now. 

“It seems sensible.” Says Udayl. “Jibran brought us through the mines. We sailed until Andrast, disembarked there, climbed over and then under the cursed mountains. By the time we reached the great-forest, many of my men were all too happy to get squashed by the Mavajari just to spare themselves the horror of crawling through those holes.” 

Lady Galadriel loses some of the polite murderous edge. “Your soul-bonded speaks sense, Itachi-of-Khazad-dum. I will organize everything. Your bodies are whole and undamaged. It is your souls that are yet unmoored. I will think on it.” 

“Mavajari?” Asks Lord Celeborn, with the air of a helpless victim of the academic zeal. “Would that be -” 

“Tree-shepherds.” Udayl seems strangely unwilling to expand, and Itachi pities the Elven Lord for a moment - it’s clear his love of learning is all-encompassing. Politeness - and the disapproving gaze his wife sends him - keeps his curiosity somewhat leashed. 

“Ents,” the Lord sighs. “Ondorim, in Sindarin. I am surprised your people speak of them. They are considered to be creatures of legend by most in Middle-Earth. Men especially have forgotten.” 

Udayl’s lip twists into a miracle of disregard. “Northmen know very little about most things, I have found. I would not consider them a worthy yardstick.” 

Itachi - paradoxically - puffs out in pride. He’s growing up to be an arrogant little shit, and he very much appreciates his (older?) brother exhibiting the same symptoms. 

Lady Galadriel shares his opinion by all accounts because she bestows a beautiful smile on Udayl. “Well said, _eldandil_.” She sends a speaking look her husband's way, who looks fairly disappointed but accepting. 

“We take our leave of you, friends.” He says. “We have much to organize, and little time to do it, if you plan on embarking on your journey on the morrow. Food will be brought, and a bath prepared. Take what comforts you can, while you can. It will take you a week to reach Rivendell if you ride hard every day and take the bare minimum of rest along the way. Another week from Rivendell to reach the Doors of Durin.” 

Two weeks. Not unreasonable. 

Wait. “Ride? On a horse?” 

The Lord’s sigh is lost in Udayl sandpaper chuckles. 

* * *


	5. my heart is like a singing bird (-whose nest is in a water’d shoot;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart is like a singing bird  
> Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;  
> My heart is like an apple-tree  
> Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;  
> My heart is like a rainbow shell  
> That paddles in a halcyon sea;
> 
> Excerpt from Christina Rossetti, ‘A Birthday’.

Attention-wise, Itachi is tapped out. First, there is the overload of new information. Then there is the mental strain of the two barely-if-at-all integrated soul-bonds. On top of all of it the threat of a long journey to the outside looms. He will be without the safety-blankets of thousands of tons of stone above him. Or, for that matter, without the tingle of not-magic of the Elven Wards shimmering across Lothlorien.

Udayl is either in similar straits or is content to see where life will take him because he doesn’t insist on conversation. The more Itachi is starting to learn about his brother, the more morbidly fascinated he becomes with the loops and twists of his mind.

The problem, however, is that even though thinking about Udayl instead of all the various problems of Itachi’s existence seems safer on the surface, it’s absolutely not. Udayl’s life and psyche has a way of reflecting back at yourself exactly the trauma you’re trying to escape from. With himself, he had something of a buffer: he was created with the purpose of being a killer.A thousand years of selective breeding and induced physical mutations gave birth to him. Nature and nurture fell in love and had a baby and that baby was Itachi. Point is - he has some distance, with himself. He is in many ways a product, and some downsides are expected. With Udayl - there is none of that.

Alright, he tries to convince himself. Let that go. You will only tie yourself in knots if you try to parse through how well - or badly, depending on the perspective - your issues play with Udayl’s. Let’s focus on getting through the day with maximal self-care and minimal auto-induced trauma.

Boy oh boy, was there a lot of luxury to be had in Lothlorien. And boy oh boy, were the differences in Itachi and Udayl stark. (There his mind purrs. Focus on that. That’s a nice, safe thing to think about. Let’s not kid ourselves, you only ever think about the nearest brother-shaped thing at a time. That is not going to change easily. But if you must - and you must - focus on the safe bits.)

The Elves begin their day of pampering with food. So much food. If he had to choose two words to describe everything he has come to expect from Lothlorien Elves they would be ‘deceptively delicate’. The food was arranged on thin ceramic plates, slices of meats and vegetables stacked up in visually appealing ways, soaked in various sauces. Mushrooms, onions, leeks, beetroot, you name it, it was offered in a little fancy pitcher with a silver handle. Breads, cakes, biscuits; soups and stews and venison and fowl and fish. Everything one could hope to extract from a forest-based environment, in short. The spices are tamer than what he has come to expect, which in no way detracted from how delicious it all was.

Itachi, well, you can take the rich-boy out of wealth, but you cant take the wealth out of the rich-boy. Or something. Either way, he has a deep personal connection to luxury and how it all really is his due. He was in no way intimidated by the hundreds of little plates, by the stream of helpful Elven assistants swanning to and fro, bringing clothes and little itty-bitty cakes with pink sugar icing on top. He drowns himself in teas and basks in the soft linens like a well-bred show-cat.

Udayl - one of nature’s alley-cats, with tattered ears and one eye - sits rigidly in his spindly chair, as if afraid it won’t take his weight. He is markedly more polite to the assistants than he was to the Lord and Lady, which is noted by everyone and has proclaimed him to be both adorable and harmless. Elleths and Ellons - teenagers by Elven standards, Itachi is certain - pester him endlessly with the most over-the-top items of luxury they have available. And best believe that a culture of immortals that has had millennia to build up their wealth and power has plenty of luxury to throw around.

Itachi takes pity on him after he has eaten everything his body can hold, and then twice as much on top, dressed himself in a dove-grey, sinfully soft two-piece outfit, and snuggled his feet into rabbit-fur slippers. It’s entirely too warm for rabbit-fur slippers - since it’s full-on spring here - but cotton can’t snuggle feet, can it?

“A bath.” He says grandly and basks in the look of sheer relief Udayl sends to the heavens. Udayl’s outfit - a flowy, soft green tunic over dark grey trousers looks phenomenal on him. It’s quite obvious the outfit was made for him in mind - it fits his body perfectly, and while Udayl is more or less of a height with the Elves, he’s about twice as wide as they are in the shoulders. The collar of the tunic is a darker, smoky green, and it pops next to his bronze skin. His scars and visible cords of muscle can’t make him look anything other than wild, but they cast his symmetrical - if overly severe - features into a noble look.

He makes a note to bring up his odd behaviour. One way or another, Udayl spent years in the Umbari palace, living in the lap of luxury. He has seen first hand what resources they lugged from Umbar to keep their leader comfortable. The tent, the gold, the wines, the drugs. They had truly made themselves at home.

Not now though. Not when Udayl looks one hair away from starting a fight just to have something concrete to hold on to. He feels bad for all three and a half heartbeats he has until his attention is hopelessly caught. Because, motherfucker, the whole city is built into the forest. Like, no joke, not forest-themed like Konoha, but the apartments were built into these giant fucking trees. In its own way, it was - Dwarven.

Oh, the lines and the aesthetic was diametrically opposite of Dwarven but only a Dwarf would look at a forest and think - now let’s make this into fever-dream. It was just as multi-dimensional as Khazad-dum was, only this time instead of into the mountain, the endless staircases and inexplicable webs of bridges were supported by trees. Giant trees. It really should be underlined how unnecessarily large they are. There could be no possible reason for trees to needs to grow this large. Two hundred meters, if anything, and some significantly taller than that, they were bursting with Chakra. Like - like Hashirama trees, felt like. If they had a couple of millennia to grow and mature. Oh. Oh, and they were bright-gold. So.

“Udayl-”

“No, Itachi, we are not in an illusion.”

“I mean -”

“You spent decades in a giant underground maze of death and horror, and this is what you object to?”

“Now listen here, you big brute-”

* * *

The bathhouse is a. Impressively grand; b. Built into an artificial waterfall; c. Public.

The last part is, somehow, the sticking point.

It’s not that Udayl is in any way body-shy, because he stripped and went into the heated pool without a moment's hesitation, inwardly or outwardly. They both politely rebuffed the offers of help with washing their hair - moreso in Itachi’s case than in Udayl who kept his hair short and practical. It’s what happened next, that’s the problem.

News of their battle and subsequent rebirth must have made the rounds - and spotting the only two non-Elven occupants was hardly a difficult task. More importantly, their assistants must have spread word of Udayl’s harmless (hah) nature, because, within ten minutes, the large pool got suspiciously full with dozens of faux-casual Elves.

Among the tall, willowy, pale folk, Udayl’s dark skin and powerful frame stand out like a beacon. Itachi has become accustomed to the scars covering him head to toe, but among the Elves that was apparently not the norm.

It should be hilarious. Really. His big, powerful, indomitable brother brought low by giggling youths, each one probably not looking for more than a kiss and a song. (Although not necessarily just that. Silevon, Sage love him, has gone into some detail about the strong vein of Elves that saw the pursuit of pleasure to be an admirable life philosophy. Should Udayl show the slightest inclination for bed-play, floor-play or, indeed, any kind of play, Itachi has no doubt that he would have a phalanx of admirers to help him take the first step into hedonism.)

Based on what Itachi has come to learn about the horrors in his brother’s life and the tightly controlled discomfort he can feel from their connection, the Elves are being cruel without meaning to.

Well.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

He takes in a long breath, piles the wet ropes he calls hair on top of his head as best he can and says his prayers.

\- splash -

The discomfort is erased in a moment, and the giggling stops immediately. All eyes are trained on Itachi, wondering. Did he just - splash Udayl.

“Little red-”

\- splash -

He grins with all his teeth, jumps from the water, channels his Chakra onto the bottom of his feet and lands softly on the surface. Eye-contact unbroken he theatrically dips his hands in the water.

\- splash -

Udayl’s eyes flash. He stands up in the hip-deep pool.

“Alright, bratling. You want a fight? You are getting a fight.”

Itachi sniffs. “You cannot hope to even touch me, old man.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, as he’s running for his life, through the majestic wonders of the Golden Forest sky-clad, he can’t help but cackle like a maniac. Gasps are heard, and shocked exclamations, but he can feel Udayl’s depressingly innocent delight, and his heart lifts in song.

Itachi one, trauma zero.

* * *

“I wish I could say nobody dared race naked through my kingdom before.” Says Lady Galadriel with a beatific smile on her face. “That would be a lie. You share many traits with my old friend, Master Itachi.”

Itachi grimaces inwardly. “Please, my Lady, just Itachi if you would. Or practically any other appellation you can think of. Silevon called me Felador for a good few years.”

Galadriel hums. “Silevon does have an odd sense of humour. I will not call you Cave-brother, _eldandil._ You are, to my eye, just as much a child of the forest, as you are of the mountain. Itachi it is. You’ve earned more than simple courtesy just by bringing life into my halls again. It has been a while since we had children running about.”

Hah. Itachi sends a smug look Udayl’s way. They are, too, the same age. His brother ignores him completely, busy talking to Lord Celeborn over some detail about a warrior tribe in the Desert he so loves.

“I must congratulate you,” continues the Lady smoothly. “You have found a truly marvellous way to tie your spirits more closely to this plane. Indeed, laughter and joy and taking life’s simple pleasures are what I would recommend - if it wasn’t so often counterproductive to suggest such.”

Itachi can just about picture it. Lady Galadriel is a fearsome creature, indeed. He is slowly getting accustomed to her presence only because he had once been in the company of truly ridiculously powerful people. To be commanded by the oldest, most powerful creature living on this earth to be happy and relaxed must be a daunting prospect.

“Thank you.” He settles on. “I should apologize, I think, for the disruption. I am aware Udayl and myself can be a bit - much.”

“Not at all.” She says, eyes gleaming. “My people have grown solemn in recent years. Some boisterous joy will do them good.” She pauses for a moment, entirely for show. “Although, Silevon might not agree.”

Itachi surpasses the urge to wiggle in delight. “Do you think Silevon will be informed?”

“This will be spoken of for decades, _eldandil_. It is not often two Balrog-slayers are causing a scene in the streets.”

This is somehow even better. Itachi doesn’t often get to take advantage of the upsides his age allows for. If he is apparently a child, then by god, he will be a child.

“We have finished with the preparations, for the most part.” Says the Lady after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Your steeds are prepared, as is your escort. Five guards will follow you to Rivendell.”

Fucking horses.

“Are we certain I cannot run?” A Shinobi can outrun a horse, surely.

“You can do whatever you wish to.” Says the Lady, and her pleasant tone suggests grievous harm will be done to him if he doesn’t stop asking stupid questions.

“Right.” He says, not bothering to filter out the glum note from his voice. “I can learn to ride. I will just - sit on a living, breathing being then, shall I? Sit on it’s back, easy as you please. Yank it by the mouth, and stab it in the stomach when I want it to stop.”

The Lady sends him a vastly amused look. “Any one of those things would see you trampled, my friend. No, Elves ride bareback. You will ask the horse politely if it will help you. It will help or not. If it does decide to help you need not worry about steering or falling. As long as you are polite about it.”

Well, that’s something. “This will end in disaster.” He says. “Have you seen my brother? You will inflict that giant onto a poor animal?”

“I am sure we will manage.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some floof you guys 
> 
> Expect floof in the coming updates
> 
> I need to balance something out and if we have to have -- this -- then I will at least have splash-fights.


	6. determined to save (-the only life you could save.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Journey  
> By Mary Oliver  
> One day you finally knew  
> What you had to do, and began,  
> Though the voices around you  
> Kept shouting  
> Their bad advice‚  
> Though the whole house  
> Began to tremble  
> And you felt the old tug  
> At your ankles.  
> “Mend my life!”  
> Each voice cried.  
> But you didn’t stop.  
> You knew what you had to do,  
> Though the wind pried  
> With its stiff fingers  
> At the very foundations‚  
> Though their melancholy  
> Was terrible.  
> It was already late  
> Enough, and a wild night,  
> And the road full of fallen  
> Branches and stones.  
> But little by little,  
> As you left their voices behind,  
> The stars began to burn  
> Through the sheets of clouds,  
> And there was a new voice,  
> Which you slowly  
> Recognized as your own,  
> That kept you company  
> As you strode deeper and deeper  
> Into the world,  
> Determined to do  
> The only thing you could do‚  
> Determined to save  
> The only life you could save.

The trip to Rivendell starts - memorably.

First, there was the fact that, without the Chakra-infused serenity (the stern sort of wrathful serenity, certainly, but serenity nonetheless) of Lothlorien, his mountain of issues and phobias stretched out their muscles and got to work. His mind was too shattered to focus on meditating, he couldn’t even trick himself into mission-focus, most he could do was to try and handle the multiple personalities in his head without developing some new ones all on his own.

Then there was the fact that the feeling of a wide-open sky above his head made his teeth itch and his skin tighten until he resorted to numbing his fingers with Chakra just to stop gauging wounds into his own thighs.

Then there is the _horse_.

* * *

Itachi - like most predators - had a healthy respect for animals. Being a Shinobi-raised child, the idea of domesticated animals never really got through to him properly. You could form a contract with an animal Clan, and they would help you if they wanted to. There had been nin-horses in the Elemental Nations - a decent-sized Clan from Suna were their summoners, but they specialized in fire-based ninjutsu and would cheerfully burn you to a crisp if you suggested using them as beasts of burden.

All of which was to say - the act of sitting on a horse while it ran in the direction you wanted it to made him break out in hives. The horse in question - a spindly young dappled stallion named Faun - is a delightful animal for the most part. Frightfully intelligent, with endless patience for his inexperienced rider. It accepts the bribes Itachi couldn’t stop offering, with an air of indulgence. Since neither Itachi nor Udayl had so much as a stitch of clothing to their name, they had little luggage to bother with. They accepted what Lady Galadriel menaced them into bringing, and Itachi even went out of his way to trade a future piece of weaving for four bags of carrots and apples. It is now day two of the trip, and Itachi has gone through two bags.

Udayl found his issues to be the highest form of entertainment. He formed a professional relationship with his own steed - a massive, mean-looking monster of a stallion. The horse is called Nár, and other than his giant size, eerily dismissive gaze and a blue-black coat, it’s most distinguishing characteristics were the scars. The scars on his front are obviously from fierce battle. Raised skin crisscrossed the muscly chest and fore-legs in an impressive web. The faint, crueller lines around his mouth and his sides were, however, from plain ol’ human cruelty. The Elves had presumably rescued him - or had found him feasting on the flesh of his captors and offered sanctuary - and it is a picky horse indeed. Case in point - Itachi. Nár the stallion wouldn’t let Itachi within two meters of himself to save his life. Nothing Itachi did helped his unfortunate standing. No amount of carrot, apple or sugar would make his presence bearable to the monster. Udayl - a mean motherfucker if there ever was one - got along with Nár. Not perfectly, but like two old veteran soldiers who had a job to do.

Itachi could bet both his fucking eyes that he spent more years fighting, all up than Udayl did. He started fighting when he was four. He was in a war when he was six. He is _so_ a veteran.

Nothing would convince the fucking horse. Not even a good word from Faun. He had hoped that, once Nár saw his amiable relationship with the dappled youngling, he would tone down his animosity. Not so. Partly that is because Faun too got bit if he got too close, but mostly it is because Nár was simply a finicky old bastard, who is particular about who he let near himself. Udayl passed whatever arcane test put before him. So did two out of six Elves in their guard. But anyone else? Hoof to the head without hesitation.

(It is entirely possible the sheer breadth and complexity of Itachi’s fixation on the two horses is concerning. Consider this, he consoles himself. Most every other thing you could be focusing on is much worse. The horses might be a bane of your existence, but they aren’t actively splintering your mind and making your ears ring.)

What little of the immediate surroundings he is sane enough to observe is lovely, in a sort of sparse, ‘don’t fuck with me’ way. The river is massive, for one. They’ve been following the river for two days now, pausing only to rest the horses (and Nár who, as the emissary of the underground did not feel fleshy things such as hunger or exhaustion) and sleep. The Elven guard stays clear of Itachi notably, and Udayl by association. They were markedly friendlier in Lorien when they set off, but the further they got from the Chakra-haze of peace and serenity, the more visible the cracks in Itachi’s mind became.

He isn’t even sure what exactly was the final straw, what set of this latest mental breakdown.The sky is a bit annoying, but he had thought that particular phobia was dead and happily buried. The overabundance of the voices and thoughts and feelings in his head, alright, that is fucked up by anyone’s standards. He could successfully ward off one set of deeply traumatic memories. The second would be a desperate patch-job, and then the third would shank him when he’s not looking. Between Maat, Udayl and Itachi they have such a wide variety of shitty childhoods and traumatic lives to just about cover the human condition. There is not one kind of abuse in the world that one of them at least, if not all three, have experienced in some way. It is - difficult.

(He thinks about it when it becomes too much - how different starts in life can fuck you up in different ways. There is Udayl who started off as the lowest of the low, son of a dying sex-worker. There is Itachi, Heir to the arguably oldest and factually wealthiest Clan in Fire-country. Then there is Maat, who born into a soul-crushingly upper-lower-class, lower-middle-class family of social graspers. Both of his parents being mean, petty assholes, frustrated with everything and too scared to try and change, for fear of losing the little they had. Itachi’s parents loved him. Udayl’s mother loved him. Maat’s parents despised him, each other and themselves in equal measure. And that’s just the start in life.)

On the third day, Udayl set him down and looked at him with a patient sort of solidity. “Little red, you will not make it to your Dwarves if you don’t start working on whatever is tearing you into pieces. So. What is tearing you into pieces?”

What a loaded question that is. He has three sets of memories and is starting to seriously doubt his sanity. Right now - yeah, it is probably just a flash of a memory or a second-hand phobia. It would be, he shudders, much worse if he wasn’t an Uchiha. His mind is already more or less adapted to storing absurd amounts of info. The problems will start if he starts going down the path of Cousin Obito who tried to play off his split personality disorder as a quirk to confuse his enemies.

“I am.” He says, without a single idea how to finish that sentence. “My mind is.” Think. Talk.

Udayl sits patiently, a vacuum of judgement. Now that is a truly comforting person to have in your life, thinks the tiny part of his brain not wrapped up in his mental breakdown.

“Only time will help.” He says finally. “The memories need to settle somehow. I will adapt. But it will take time.”

“Understandable.” A pause. “Why not talk to your Gods? They might know more.”

Itachi - freezes. Starts. Stops. Starts again. Stops again.

Another pause, but Itachi’s eyes have stopped sending his mind any signals, and he is a hundred per cent lost in his head. “I will leave you to it, then.”

A shrine. A shrine. A shrine.

He stands absently and goes in the direction of the river.

A shrine. A shrine. A shrine.

* * *

The shrine is made entirely on instinct. He doesn’t know why he chose those particular stones, nor does he know what he carved into them (or how, for that matter). He places a circle of stone in an empty patch of grass, carved party with runes, some with Kanji, some with fuck knows what. He bleeds on them quite a bit, for some unknowable reason. Sits in the circle and - screams into the void basically.

Father’s presence is weaker than Mother’s. Barely a whisper of solid stone, a suggestion of iron will. But Mother - she is as present here as she is anywhere. Ghostly hands cup his cheeks and the very air gentles around him. The agonized noise in his head dims bit by bit, and he’s crying now, not from relief, but from the absence of agony. One by one, the memories stop, the voices wink out, and there is nothing but him and the all-encompassing maternal care.

His soul is somehow crying. He realizes just how - scared he is. Please, he thinks. It is not enough. “Please.” He says, breathes, pleads. Better. “Please, I can’t. Not again.” Not the insanity again. “Please.” He bends his body into a bow and lets the grass soak up his tears. “I am not strong enough.” He has died with voices screaming in his mind once. He doesn’t have it in him to do it again.

Mother isn’t as expressive as Father is. She communicates love, support, encouragement well enough, but it doesn’t go further than that. After the hellish three days where the little stability he has managed to cobble together crumbled like a tower of cards, to feel love and not alien memories and thoughts is more than he had hoped for.

Time is entirely immaterial, here, but the sun goes down, then up again, and only then is he something approaching ready to move on.

“Thank you.” He says out loud, and channels his Chakra bright, infusing it with however much gratitude he can muster. “I was a fool to not call you sooner.”

A ghostly huff, an exasperated caress. Yes, implies the air. You were, conveys the grass. Don’t do it again, suggests the wind.

* * *

The Elves are even more wary, now. Well - wary is perhaps the wrong term. They are quiet around him, observing but eminently respectful. Itachi scoffed when Udayl suggested they dismantle the shrine - as if anything or anyone could use his paltry focusing technique to do anything nefarious. No, if anything, Itachi is that much more determined to build a makeshift shrine every time they stop, so he can spend the night in peace, in healing.

On one hand, their pace slows down even further, and instead of a week, they are looking at twelve days to Rivendell at the very least. On the other hand, he can sleep now, technically. He mediates, in truth, after three days he can meditate while sitting in a comfortable lotus position. After five, he can do so laying down. With over ten hours of being bathed in love and care, his hormone levels are finally balancing out into something more reasonable. He can still barely bring himself to speak, but after each session, he is learning to - tint the voices in his head somewhat. His own internal monologue - and why, oh why must he be a verbal thinker - he tints red, for fire. Maat is a soothing blue, for water, and Udayl is a deep brown, for earth. (Udayl thinks he worships the Sun. That’s all well and fine, but ultimately nonsense. Udayl worships the sands, more than anyone or anything). It still takes every molecule of attention he has to stay on top of his mental dynamics, which obviously results in moments of inattention causing mayhem either in the physical world or in the mental world. He mirrors Udayl’s thoughts or actions unthinkingly, at times. He picks up on Maat’s distress or curiosity.

He is a twitching, neurotic little lunatic, in short. His head snaps up every now and again, brain re-wiring some thought or action by mistake. He senses phantom smells. He feels enough to drown a city. He is in a spectacular whirlpool of strong opinions on bizarre things. Like pan’nah. What pan’nah is, remains a mystery to the original Itachi. Udayl and Maat, however, consecutively worship the nebulous foodstuff or detest it with the heat of a thousand suns. It is - some variation of curdled milk? Possibly? Which, yeah, he’s willing to side with Maat on this one, and write the whole thing off as a product of a peculiar mind.

Udayl is encouraging in his own way. He packs up packets of food in oil-paper which he foists on Itachi with a steely look whenever they start moving. He takes up the care and feeding of Faun, who had come to lip at Itachi’s hair in worry in recent days. Horses, like all animals, appreciate Mother’s shrines. They aren’t drawn to them, but they are - mildly appreciative. A rabbit would hop by and touch it with its little paws. Faun (who Itachi has secretly started calling Dapples because the horse is adorable) will circle it a couple of times. Nár will not stomp it out of existence, which is really most anyone could expect from him. Out of deference to Itachi - and the fact that he will defend them against God and anyone - they leave the wildlife that has come to pay respects to Mother alone. What hunting they have to do, they do fair and square, in the surrounding wildlife.

Elves give the Shrines a wide fucking berth. Udayl is respectfully wary, but Elves eye it like addicts would their drug of choice. Like it’s dangerous and beautiful and more than they can afford right now. Which, honestly, is inserting, and in any other time he would investigate. But Elves are strange creatures, overall. Counterintuitive in most ways, dignified and contained but merry and flighty at the same time. It will not end well for him if he started to measure them by any standard he can think of.

He lets the flighty Elves flight, and focuses on nailing down some semblance of order, and re-digging some trenches in his mind. Civilians use mind-palaces. Itachi has spiritual Chakra. Itachi can build structures in his mind as strong and as stable as anyone could imagine. (As long as the Gods stop shoving adult fucking humans in them).

“You know,” he says to Udayl, on day seven, just over halfway to Rivendell. “I might not recover from this in any reasonable fashion?”

“You died, little red. You were dead for weeks. You are a braver man than me if you begrudge your Gods the paltry price.”

“I will not begrudge them anything.” He says a little scandalized. “How would I even do that - Mother and Father, they do not think like we do. If you fall, would you begrudge the world for being in your way?”

“What are you saying, then?”

“Begrudge.” He huffs. “I am saying, you weird, weird man, that I might be permanently insane. Time will help hide some of the - visible symptoms, but whatever the methods of binding my soul to two people has backfired. I can block the connection between myself and Maat. I cannot do the same with you. It is causing. Problems.”

Udayl hums. “You were never sane, little red, no point in lying to yourself about it.” He pauses for a moment, ignoring Itachi’s considering hum. “I think you are biased against yourself. Who do you think would mind you being less than composed after doing what the Golden Lady claimed was beyond her power to do?”

“I mind.” He says, the dread in his soul shifting his tone into something dark. “There are a few things I cannot endure again. Being handicapped is one. Being insane is another.”

“Insane by what standard? I think your current state is both rational and well-deserved. You are not crazed, you are not violent. You are overwhelmed and struggling. If you cannot see the difference in those things, trust me to do so.” He pauses for a second, indecision thrumming through their connection. “I will go so far as to promise to kill you myself if you start betraying yourself unforgivably.”

There is no lie there, which is incredible. In a one on one fight - they’re about evenly matched. Itachi could eke out a win maybe - but not at all certain. And that was before Udayl - through Itachi - had access to Chakra.

“You would, wouldn’t you.” He says, and the promise settles around him like a hug. “You could too.”

“So stop worrying every moment. You are no more a monster than any other thinking animal.”

* * *

Day ten sees them getting nearer to the Misty Mountains - what a trite name for such an imposing mountain range - and Udayl grows tenser by the hour.

“Will our horses be able to pass?” Asks Itachi. Focusing on the here and now is a struggle, but it certainly won’t improve without practice. It helps if he thinks of it as acting in a play. He carefully addresses the question to the Captain - Cúron, if he remembers the hazy introductions correctly - who is least uneasy around him. Udayl was his primary means of communication with the Elven continent of their party - which is hilarious - but his brother is disquieted enough to be almost non-verbal.

“We will not be able to ride them,” Says Cúron. “But the paths should carry them without issue.”

That’s one worry less. He tries for a grateful smile, but whatever expression his face contorts into is far from encouraging. The Captain is professional enough to not react outwardly, his face remains perfectly blank, but the sentiment is felt. It seems his reputation with the Lorien Elves is doomed.

He absently feeds Dapples a (third to last) apple, dodges Nár’s teeth and eels next to Udayl, leeching off his warmth.

“Two days,” he says under his breath. “Two days and we will be in Rivendell.”

“Joy.” Says Udayl, dry as the desert he so loves.

“Oh hush.” He says. “You loved Lothlorien, and don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I did enjoy the Golden Forest.” He agrees. “As much as your wetlands can be enjoyed in any case. I do not see why that would make me predisposed to like Rivendell?”

Wetlands, pshh.

“You’re such a snob.” He says fondly.

“Says the high-bred bratling obsessed with clothes.”

“Exactly, I am well versed in snobbery of all shapes and sizes. You play a good game, with your stoic face and your battle-scars, but there is no fooling me. Wetlands, my shiny kunai.”

Udayl huffs but holds his peace. Which is really for the best. The strain of keeping his thoughts in order is growing uncomfortable, and pressure in his temples grows. It will be a full-on migraine if he doesn’t stop.

He closes his eyes and moves towards the Elves -

\- chomp -

“Goddamn it Udayl, control your fucking horse -”

* * *


	7. but he who kisses the joy as it flies (-lives in eternity's sun rise.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Eternity'  
> He who binds to himself a joy  
> Does the winged life destroy;  
> But he who kisses the joy as it flies  
> Lives in eternity's sun rise.
> 
> William Blake

It takes them thirteen days to reach Rivendell. Mostly because Itachi makes himself a nuisance.

No, really. It started with him going to feed Dapples, and Nár trying to bite his eyes. Itachi's very professional, very dashing escape from infirmity saw him vaulting over the demon-horse, straight down the side of the mountain. He is a Shinobi, so that is ultimately meaningless, but he does spend a good few minutes skating down the mountain, cackling like a maniac.

Which, then, obviously means the feat must be repeated again and again.

While the adults are being slow about their boring path - and Itachi has been banned from helping with the horses courtesy of Nár - he has no reason to keep to their pace. He whizzes past a couple of mountain goats who don’t so much as blink and scandalizes a mother-cat with two little cubs. He catches three birds - all different types, none of which he can name, but one of them looks like a goose - and gives one to the cat as payment.

Two remaining birds in hand, he runs up the mountain to present his long-suffering brother with his tribute.

(The voices in his head are known to quiet down when he moves, when he laughs, when he’s happy. Which, really. There are other, less traumatizing ways his subconscious could choose to get him to take care of himself.)

“Are you done-”

He’s off, skating down the mountain before the sentence is out of his mouth. They will be in Rivendell soon, and he had best prepare himself. There is a nice, bendy looking tree that looks to be eminently climbable.

* * *

If the Elven guard were confused by Itachi before, his inexplicable foray into childishness certainly didn’t help.

Udayl - who must not be allowed too much time to stew about how much he detests mountains - retaliates by making sure Nár and his teeth are always nearby just in case Itachi gets any ideas. Which, considering the sheer amount of pine-cones he had stuffed down the man’s tunic, is a pretty wise precaution.

Itachi, knowing he is beaten, retreats. He has, after all, better things to do. They will reach Rivendell in about a day, and it is spring.

Which means - _berry season_.

The mountain paths are pretty bare, yes, but there are a few patches of wildlife here and there. Blackberries should be all but abundant, in short, and he has high hopes for some wild strawberries.

* * *

Mother smiles on him today, he grins. Now - how to store them?

* * *

He returns to the camp to beg off an empty bag from the Elves. He doesn’t _need_ to beg, of course, they’re all perfectly polite, but it’s fun to fluster them. And Itachi is conveniently sized and equipped with the sort of skinny frame and sunken eyes that can pull off ‘hungry orphan’ perfectly. His voice, yeah, is a bit too deep and rich, a piping soprano would be better, but if he speaks low enough he can whittle the timbre down to a raspy, ragged quality that suits well enough.

He gets his bag with minimal fuss (and maximal chaos) and hurtles down to work. His hands are still not anywhere as dexterous as he would like - the mind-muscle connection works oddly upon reincarnation, he has come to understand - and what better way to practice than this?

* * *

“You do not, by any chance have a pot you do not need?” He asks the Elves a little later.

The Captain - Cúron - hands him one without comment.

“Excellent, excellent, what a well-prepared operation you’re running here, Captain, good on you. Now, by any chance, might I borrow this here little sword?”

“Little red, are you terrorizing the guards again?”

“Ask me no questions, my friend.”

It’s not his fault - a challenge has been set. Amaterasu wept, but _he will meet it._

Those fucking bees will rue the day.

* * *

His triumphant return is in no way hindered by A. His soaked clothing; B. Sluggishly bleeding hands or C. A couple of dozen of bee-stings down his arms and shoulders.

Because Itachi is now in possession of a full pot of honey. No, really, a big-ass cast-iron cooking pot. If he wasn’t using Chakra liberally, he’d have been hard-pressed to even pick it up. Especially not when it's filled with 10kg+ of thick, golden honey.

“And _this_ , my friends,” He declares, as he sets the pot down carefully next to the cooking fire. “Is why you shouldn’t chase away little boys from their strawberries if you want your honey safe.”

He feels the demonic energy before he even hears the huff.

“Udayl, I love you more than life itself. If your fucking horse even thinks about compromising my honey in any way, I will skin you and it simultaneously and leave you to rot. And I warn you, there are some pissed-off bees roaming the mountains at this time.”

* * *

Apparently, the Elven kingdoms have a means of communication other than the obvious, because a full set of twenty-four armoured Elves wait for them at the foot of the mountain. Twenty four plus one in a purple coat.

Itachi’s Elves have by now lost so much of their grip on reality, that they practically weep at the chance for relief. They don’t rush to meet their saviours but they look at them with such fierce longing that Itachi considers his work to be successful.

(Really, he thinks. The Elves need a little shaking up. His Silevon was never this bad at handling a little chaos. Neither were the two side-kicks that he may have forgotten the names of.)

Udayl - who by sheer relief from not being in the mountains anymore is as close as he can get to openly beaming - huffs a little in amusement. He is in such a good mood, in fact, that he stops his Demon from biting off Dapples’s ear. He smoothes a hand down Nár’s neck and murmurs something low in Umbari. The horse sniffs in disgust, which is not a sound horses should be able to make and tosses his head impatiently.

Most of the Elven force remains as they are, but one figure breaks ranks.

He knows that particular shade of hair. More importantly, he knows that ostentatious fucking coat.

“That’s my friend.” He says to Udayl, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. He doesn’t crow, per se, but he’s not far from it.

Silevon must hear his voice - which would absolutely be news to him - and speeds up. He whizzes past the Elven guard, past Udayl, and only stops his lovely mare when he’s within ten feet of Itachi. With a purely showy move, he slides off the horse, without breaking his stride. One long step, two, three, and then he’s beside Itachi, pulling him down from Dapples firmly.

“ _Idiot child_ ,” he growls into his hair. “You brave, moronic little _nightmare_.” He’s never to date hugged Itachi, their parting was stiff in truth, with hurt feelings and misunderstandings on both parts. It seems, however, the Elf didn’t hold a grudge.

Slightly dazed by this outpouring of sentiment, he pats the Elf on the back as best he can. His feet don’t touch the ground, since the tall maniac has swept him up in the air like a child. (Which, yeah.).

“ _Mae g'ovannen_ ,” he says, wrapping his tongue around the Elven syllables as best he can.

“Ita-” Says Silevon. “Itachi, is that - can you speak now, dear child?”

“Apparently so.” He says, injecting a smile into his tone. “Do not ask me how exactly it happened because it involved an Umbari blood-wizard, a Balrog and a whole lot of running.”

Silevon hisses in distress, like a boiling-over teakettle, and squeezes him even closer to his chest.

“When I - I was with the Rangers when - your battle -” He breaks off, and shakes him a little, still holding him a good foot of the ground. “ _Never_ _again_ , do you hear me? Never again will you do something so - so -”

“I am whole and healthy.” Now. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Silevon inhales a long, shaky breath, and then another. And another. With a lot of reluctance, he relaxes the stranglehold a little and sets him on the ground carefully. In the same movement, he kneels down on the ground - which, rude, he’s not that short. “Never again, Itachi. My old heart cannot take it.”

“Oh, tosh.” He says, keeping his smile gentle. “You are perfectly fine. Now!”

He turns around, and wow, that is one captive audience. The Rivendell Elves have at some point ridden close to them and have dismounted. Lorien Elves have joined them, and thirty sets of eyes watch them with rapt attention.

Udayl, Sage love him, stands between them, back turned to Itachi. He’s not aggressive - any more than he is by default - but there is a clear line here. God, his brother is adorable.

“Udayl, my friend, come, come. I have someone important for you to meet.”

He turns to Silevon and whispers barely audibly. “That is my soul-bonded. It’s a long story. He’s a lamb, you will love him.”

Silevon blinks once, twice. “A lamb, you say,” he says weakly.

Udayl times his arrival perfectly, and he stops by the two of them with what is for him a rather welcoming expression. “I see you, Silevon of Lothlorien.” He says with a deep thrum of formality.

Silevon turns to meet the new arrival and inclines his head, but not before sending Itachi a deeply shocked look. “ _Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn._ A star shines on the hour of our meeting. You have me at an advantage, friend.”

“This is Udayl,” says Itachi sunnily. “Udayl of Umbar. My dear friend. Udayl, I have mentioned Silevon to you already.”

“Once or twice,” says Udayl. He is outwardly relaxed, but Itachi feels the resounding twang of curiosity through their connection. “You have not spoken of many. I am gratified to meet the one you hold in such high esteem.”

Silevon tilts his head slightly, losing some of the stiff - not intimidated but not _not_ intimidated - posture. “I have heard of you as well, Master Udayl. Lady Galadriel sent word ahead, of the two who have felled the last Balrog on Arda. Your name, I am afraid, is quickly being written into histories.”

Udayl’s lips turn down sharply. “I have done nothing.” He says, raising his voice so his Elven audience can hear. “From start to finish, I have been little but a burden to my friend. There is but one who has landed a blow on the Sharini - the Balrog - and that is Itachi.”

Itachi snorts. “He makes it sound very heroic.” He says to Silevon ostensibly, but to all the Elves in truth. “In truth, it was little more than wild, blind luck.”

Udayl snorts. “No, indeed not. Nevertheless, I will have the truth be known. My blades have never touched the Balrog.”

Two can play that game, asshole. “Neither did mine.” He says and turns to Silevon. “I say the truth when I say it was no glorious battle. But there are more interesting things to talk about - my voice for one. Oh - oh - “

He bounces off to Udayl, revelling in both his brother’s amusement and his - whatever the fuck Silevon is, in his patchwork-family - shock.

“Now,” he points grandly to his - to Silevon’s tall frame. “Tell me, if you dare, that is not a fine coat. Now, imagine, if you would, how lovely that shade of indigo would look with your eyes.”

“Not this again.” Says Udayl. “Now is not the time to peddle your goods, little red. Now is the time to move away from Nár before -”

\- chomp -

“I swear to _Mother_ , Udayl -”

* * *

“I have seen rabbits leap into your arms, Itachi.” Says Silevon, brushing Nár languidly. “I have seen a mother úriuë drop her kittens onto your belly. Birds play with your hair and spiders dance on your fingers.”

Oh, you sweet summer child. “I have done nothing to the demon horse,” Itachi says. “It hates everybody.” He pauses, acknowledging Silevon’s arch look. “Almost everybody. No, I am serious Silevon, he even bites Dapples!”

“Dapples?” Asks Udayl, with no little amount of schadenfreude.

“Dapples - my horse - oh, right, the Elves call him Faun.”

In a moment of perfect cosmic timing, Dapples chooses that exact moment to bury his nose in the last apple-and-carrot bribe bag.

“ _See_!” He says, vindicated. “Look at its innocent little face. What kind of a horse would bite Dapples?”

“Nár would never.” Harumphs Silevon. “He’s doubtlessly just fed up with younglings bouncing around and causing mischief. Aren’t you? He probably,” he turns to Itachi with a significant look, “just wants to express his feelings about children attacking immortal servants of Morgoth, hmm?”

“Wha- now hold on just one moment. You think this beast -” he points to the massive black stallion, more scar than horse, with enough leg-power to punch clear through a ribcage. “- objects to my violent ways?”

“That is exactly what I am saying, yes. I have known Nár since he was little more than a foal, and he has always been a perfect gentle-horse. In fact, my Niquisse and he have had three beautiful foals.”

Itachi isn’t even playing up his outrage anymore, that’s how ridiculous that statement is.

“Your horse - the showy, white one that grew poofy in the winter? It - she - with _Nár_?”

“My ‘Isse did not grow poofy.” Sniffs Silevon. “All horses grow a winter coat, and hers is a very fetching one indeed. And yes, she has always had a warm relationship with this dashing stallion here, hasn’t she?”

Itachi turns his eyes away from his cooing pseudo-parent and sends a horrified look at Udayl.

Udayl who looks at Silevon with a hidden glint of curiosity.

His mind spins, and he shuts his mouth with a click.

Alright - so that happened.

“Let’s just - let’s just go.” He says, defeated. “I was bid to go to Rivendell by the Golden Lady, and I dare not tarry.” Who knows what subtle revenge the Lady will inflict on him yet. Because this - this with Nár - this has to be revenge on her part. She knew, the witch, and she orchestrated the whole thing, he’s certain of it.

* * *

Rivendell - or Imladris - is visibly tamer than the other two Kingdoms he has visited.

Which doesn’t at all detract from its elegant glory, but it just looks like something built by humans - or Elves as the case may be.

The - town is too big, and a village is too shabby - the settlement consists mostly of one sprawling Palace and accompanying smaller structures that come with. The whole thing is nestled in a valley, between towering cliffs, and next to the river Bruinen.

Its - almost nostalgic in a way. For once, the Palace wasn’t taller than four or five stories, and even then they complemented the nature beautifully. It worked with the aesthetic much more than Lothlorien had, honestly. For all that the Golden City was built into a forest, it didn’t even try to be subtle about its architecture. It was all bold lines and shocking bridges.

Rivendell on the other hand was built in grey and whites, and it made every allowance it could to not disturb the nature growing around it. Almost every house was covered at least in part with vines, and even the climate was somehow peaceful.

Itachi smells a rat.

Not really, of course, and rats don’t particularly smell either way, but the sentiment remains. The Wards around the settlement are every bit as strong - if not stronger - than the ones around Lothlorien. The only difference is that the person who tailored them went for a different approach. Where Lorien was awe and majesty and an intimidating glimpse into what the Elven Kingdom could look like if Elves bothered with conquering, Rivendell was a subtle invitation to rest and heal.

Hooo, now, that is impressive. He retreats into his mind and pokes at the innocent-looking foreign magic suffusing though it. What is this, now?

“Say, Silevon,” he says with a light tone. “This Lord Elrond, he doesn’t happen to be a magic-user?”

Silevon’s sigh is complex and heartfelt. “I do not think he is, no. Dare I ask why?”

“Oh, no reason, no reason.” He says absently. “There’s just this pleasant little kind-of-sort-of-enchantment being woven around me and into me, and, well. You know me. I am just trying to see what its purpose is and whether it should be allowed to continue. Udayl? Your thoughts?”

“I feel nothing,” Udayl says. “Then again, that could be because of you.”

“True, true.” A general-type enchantment wouldn’t know what to do with the two of them that are more or less three souls mushed together and scooped back into three containers. It would be even more interesting if dear Maat was here. “Well, I suggest we leave it for now, at least until we can have a word with Lord Elrond about it. The process of getting rid of it could be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I forgot how uniquely trying you can be,” says Silevon. “Please try not to antagonize Lord Elrond.” A pause. “I trust you were perfectly polite to my Lady during your stay in Lorien?”

Itachi grins wide and mean. “Oh, _yes_. We had a lovely stay in Lorien, didn’t we Udayl?”

Udayl smirks back at him, willing to play along. “Memorable, to be certain.”

Silevon wilts. “I am punished unjustly.”

Speaking of. “Lady Galadriel did mention an Elf she would like me to meet. Glorfindel, I believe was his name?”

His Elf wilts even further. “Are you certain she said that? Glorfindel? Not say, Erestor? Or Lindir?”

Well, now, this little nugget of chaos has _potential_. “No,” he hums. “I am certain, we were talking about being re-born, and she clearly mentioned an Elf called Glorfindel. Does he live here?”

“Oh alright,” sighs Silevon. “I see when I am beaten. Yes, I will introduce you to Glorfindel.” He sighs again. “Not to worry, I have no doubt you two -”, he pauses and looks Udayl up and down analytically. “- you _three_ will get along splendidly.”

Itachi grins and decides to throw his Elf a bone. “Very kind of you to say so. Now, did you know that Umbar has its own language? Several languages in fact.”

There we go. The Silver head perks up and a manic glint shines in his eyes until they’re almost a light-source on their own. “ _You don’t say._ ” He breathes, eyes trained on Udayl like an apex predator. “And that’s just Umabr - I would think surrounding countries are similar in that respect.”

“Oh yes,” drawls Itachi, happily sacrificing his brother to the cause. “Many countries, many cultures. Dozens, if I understood correctly.”

He soaks in the betrayed look Udayl sends him as he smoothes a hand down Dapples’s neck. They’re almost there, perhaps an hour of riding more and they will make it to Imladris. What a fun little trip this is.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Err - this one is a bit - cracky. I need some fun, alright. 2020 is grinding my life into the dirt, and I really, really need some uncomplicated cracky laughter. 
> 
> Happy holidays y'all. Here's hoping next year is so beyond awesome that it makes up for this disaster <3
> 
> Refferences, shoutouts: 
> 
> I see you - from Wheel of Time 
> 
> Silevon’s horse:   
> niquis Q. noun. ice-flake, snowflake, petal (loose) of a white flower, *[ᴱQ.] snow  
> lissë² Q. noun. grace  
> —> Niquisse - graceful snowflake 
> 
> Nár - flame 
> 
> Faun - cloud


	8. suspicion (-is a poisonous seed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicion  
> is a poisonous seed  
> which reaps  
> rich harvest  
> of unfair assumptions!
> 
> Vijay Sai

Their trip through Imladris is, all around, a dignified, quiet affair. Itachi is a little surprised, although pleasantly so. Where Lorien Elves had a reserved but curious air about them, in Imladris they are afforded a great deal of privacy. Even their youths stay at a respectful distance. Obviously, Itachi can sense them loud and clear but he appreciates the gesture.

The feeling of the settlement differs greatly from Lorien too. Rivendell, notably, has a thick sense of serenity blanketing it. It kind of makes Itachi want to cry but also fall to his knees in worship of whoever managed to not only create but sustain this level of peace and security. It’s fucking with Udayl’s head, he knows. Lady Galadriel’s version of wrathful glory was more his speed. This—is something new. It’s new to Itachi too, to be fair, but he’s had a few years with the Dwarves to get used to communal wholeheartedness—and they come equipped with Dwarflings which are game-changers all on their own.

The winding path leads them into an open-concept courtyard, which continues into the main structure of the palace. There is a welcome committee—because of course there is. A group of eight elves, surrounded by twelve more guards and a great deal more further in the back.

Some of the childish, giddy elation rapidly evaporates from Itachi and he finds himself straightening, eyes falling to half-mast. A welcome committee might not have been the best choice of words. These new Elves are much too tense for this to be anything other than a cautious meeting of two unknown parties. A parley, with the high likelihood of hostilities hanging in the balance.

Itachi’s Lorien-Elves have been hanging back from the get-go. Before this moment, Itachi took it to be a sign of respect. Now, though, with the blank stares of the Elven Lords boring into him and his brother, and the heavy silence blanketing the courtyard, it’s hard to avoid thinking about different motives they might have. Such as bracketing them in, for example. He doesn’t think Lady Galadriel’s soldiers would attack, but the Rivendell ones—?

“Stay close,” he says under his breath to his brother, who looks, bless him, like something interesting is finally happening.

“As always, I am with you, little red. I do hope your brand of luck is still in play because the tall one on the left will be a trial.”

The tall one on the left being a golden-haired Elf blessed with such flawless beauty and dense Chakra it genuinely hurts to look at him. He could be Lady Galadriel’s brother. They shared both the entirely excessive physical perfection and the general feel of barely-leashed violence. Well—not violence, but a certain pragmatic flavour of ruthlessness, perhaps?

“The dark-haired one in the middle with the pretty crown, I think, will be dangerous. He has a sneaky air around him.”

“Magic-users.” Sneers Udayl. “Not a good fight to be found.”

“I am offended. Look at this face, this is my offended face.”

Itachi sneaks a glance to Silevon, curious as to how he is taking the, well, ambush. Huh—that’s one familiar slant to the Hatake-pale eyes, isn’t it? He hasn’t seen it for a while now, it almost makes him nostalgic for their times in the mines.

Itachi sends him a quick, sharp smile. “I keep dragging you to battle, my friend. And I don’t even have my armour with me this time.”

Silevon’s nostrils flare briefly, knuckles tightening on his horse’s mane. “This isn’t what it looks like, I’m sure.” He lies through his teeth. “And if it is, well. We will handle it. You have a way of emerging victorious from most unlikely battles.”

“That is true.” Says Udayl, with a disgustingly relaxed air about him. “The world itself goes to great lengths to avoid disappointing you, little red. Do not fret.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Itachi says, which is true. He’s very good at de-escalation. Whatever their problem is, it will likely not end up in violence that easily. He just needs to keep his wits about him.

To that end. “Silevon, perhaps it would be best if you handle the introductions and such?” Certainly better than if Itachi were to try. Udayl doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Eru help me.”

They slide off their horses—some easier than others. Nár is already pawing at the ground, very unhappy that his partner has gone beyond the protection of his hooves and teeth. Dapples dances in place, aware of the tension but not really clear on what he should do about it. He huddles next to Nár, which is just a stupid idea, but for once the demon-horse doesn’t bite. Instead he, Silevon’s mare and Dapples band together, tense and aware.

“Hail, Lord Elrond. I have returned as promised. I bring my dear companion, Itachi of Khazad-dum, and his soul-bonded, Udayl of Umbar, as well as their escorts sent by Lady Galadriel of the Golden Forest.”

Lord Elrond steps forward, not so much as a flicker of an expression on his face. “It has been a long time since anyone brought a servant of the Enemy to my halls, Silevon of Lothlorien. An Umbari blood-lord, no less.”

A curious sort of freezing warmth spreads through Itachi’s veins. Woo, boy. De-escalation, remember? That’s the plan. The Elf might be full of—just, ignore him. That seems to be the best way forward. Ignore the nonsense, and do what you have to do.

“We’re leaving.” He steps in front of Udayl, who looks to be, if anything, even more relaxed than before. Humanize yourself, make yourself into a person for these assholes. He meets their eyes one by one, lingering a little at the twins that look to be barely out of their teenage years, and, more importantly, on the golden-haired Lord who looks right back with a conflicted tilt to his lips. “There is no need for this to go any further. We were invited. Now that it has become clear we are not welcome, we will leave.”

“Oh?” Hums the Elf—Lord Elrond, by all accounts. “If only it were that simple. You have been shown the way to the Hidden Valley of Imladris, I am afraid. Every great Elven stronghold that has fallen, has fallen due to treachery. Lady Galadriel might have been blinded by sentiment, by her attachment to Durin-folk and Moria, but I cannot afford such things. You will not be permitted to leave until you can prove you are not who you very much look to be.”

The freezing sensation intensifies, quickly accompanied by a more deliberate, violent shade of rage.Beside him, he feels Silevon tense and Udayl relax into his most deceptive— dangerous—position. Fight through this—try again—there is no need for violence and once you start you know you will not be allowed to stop—

“You invite us here, you involve my dear friend in your plotting, and you think to keep us here? Trap us here? Keep us in captivity?” His voice deepens and quietens until he is barely more than a rumbling growl. “Me? You think to trap _me_? Keep me away from my Dwarves? My Maat? I will give you another chance to reconsider, Elrond of Rivendell. Think about who I am and whose words I carry on my body—whose words we both carry on our bodies.”

“You will not be the first to think to style themselves the emissaries of the Valar, in order to spy and betray.” Says Elrond implacably. “Nor the last. I will not be but one in a long line of Noldor Lords to trust when I should not and doom my people for it.”

“You go too far,” says Silevon, entirely unreadable even to Itachi. “Much too far. On your head be it. I am happy where I stand, in this manufactured little conflict. Make of that as you will.”

Itachi’s Chakra flexes, happy to be let out. He’s been leashing it, keeping it folded up all neat-like, in a vain attempt to keep their hosts happy. His eyes spin red, cataloguing each reaction. To their credit, the predictive aspect of the Sharingan doesn’t see any pre-emptive violence on the part of the Elves. They will not attack first. Well—that’s fucking convenient, isn’t it?

His teeth itch for blood, the cold rage howling to teach these arrogant, reckless children a lesson at who they should and should not be fucking with, and why—

“Udayl, darling. These Elves doubt me.” He says, not taking his eyes off of Elrond. “They doubt my Gods, Udayl.”

“I heard, little red.” Hums Udayl. “That was not wise of them.”

“Silevon, light of my life, I think you should step back. There we go, right behind Udayl, nice and tucked away. Your charming little friends have set forth a challenge. That was brave of them. Now let’s see if they can handle what they’ve bitten off.”

Elrond raises an eyebrow, not moving from his position, but his guards close in blades at the ready. The other Lords bristle too, arms moving towards hidden and not-so-hidden hilts, bodies shifting into battle-readiness.

“Now, now. No need for that,” Itachi coos, deep and mocking. “That is not the arena you have chosen, I am afraid. It would have been simpler, perhaps, if you challenged me in strength of arms, or quickness of wit.” A sneer twists his lips, and he cocks his head a little, making sure to be as obnoxious as possible. “Unfortunately for you, you have chosen to cast doubts as to who, exactly, I serve. That was a mistake.”

“A demonstration, then.” He says, words ringing out in the slightly uncertain silence that follows. “I can’t say you will enjoy it much, but it should be illuminating.” The guards shift, and he sends them a pitying glance. “Not to worry. I will not so much as scratch your lordlings pretty faces. Or your own. You are not at fault for their foolishness.”

He closes his eyes briefly, methodically relaxing tensed up muscles. Sharingan spins behind closed lids, and he falls into the, by now, blessedly familiar state of openness. Mother and Father are always there, always present at the edge of his consciousness, vast and unknowable, and yet so fucking comforting. Whom should he go to—

“Dearest, who do you think the children would enjoy meeting more, Mother or Father?”

Silevon shudders, Chakra twisting inwards. Udayl sighs. “Do not go overboard, little red. The Elf Lord is right to be cautious.”

“The Elf Lord is much too old to be this reckless.” Hisses Itachi, biting back the other, much less politic things he could say about Elrond of fucking Imladris. “Both it is.”

He sharpens his nail with Chakra, just enough to form a thin razor-blade. He drags the edge down his palm and lets his devotion sing through his blood, reaching for Mother as he goes. His eyes snap open, as they roll in his head slightly, overwhelmed as always at her presence.

“Mother.” He breathes. It’s almost odd to be with Mother when he’s this keyed up, blood singing with rage and violence. “The children challenge that which is yours.” A wave of exasperated fondness and love envelops him in a hug that’s harsher than Her typical soft embraces. Distantly, he is aware of shocked grasps and the hurried retreat by his audience. He’s almost sorry for them—they’ve barely begun.

“Father.” He drags a long line through Udayl’s palm and clasps it with his own, letting their blood mix. The stern, unyielding hurricane of Father’s attention howls around him and his knees barely remain locked. “The children doubt that which is yours.” It is not an embrace, it is barely even an expression of care by the conventional standard. The flames of Father’s Anvil lick up and down his body, setting his Runes a’glow. The show of possessiveness makes the fucked up, Uchiha-mad part of Itachi purr.

With both Mother and Father singing in his blood, it’s a bit of a struggle to focus on being a physical being, on his senses and the world and anything that isn’t the duality of MotherAndFather. They’re comforting individually but devastating to experience in tandem.

The Elves are, somewhat predictably, frozen in place. Some—notably the golden-haired Lord—are on the verge of tears, perfect faces twisted into a rictus of overwhelmed yearning. Lord Elrond looks heart-broken, mouth slightly open, silver eyes widened as far as they would go.

Silver—much like Udayl—who you would have imprisoned, captured under false pretences—kept chained up like a dog for the crime of being born into the wrong family, you _arrogant little_ —

“They think us servants of the Fallen One,” he hisses. “They accuse without thinking. What could I accuse you of, Elrond of Imladris? With Mother and Father as my witnesses, what charges can I lay at your feet—”

“Enough.” The deep, raspy voice combined with the firm yank from the Udayl-shaped part of his mind is enough to make Itachi’s mouth snap closed. “That is enough, little red.”

“You would defend him?” The note of hurt is audible even to his own ear. “He accused you of—he called you a _servant_ —Udayl—”

Udayl meets his eyes, with nothing but an ocean of determined focus. He is the only collected soul in the entirety of Imladris, Itachi is pretty sure. Him and the horses. The valley itself waits with bated breath.

“You would curse a father in front of his children? For having the audacity to not take you at your word? I have promised to stop you if you forget yourself. Do not make me do so.”

Mother reaches through Itachi and runs ghostly hands through Udayl’s short locks. It feels roughly like what one would expect from one of the Valar passing through one’s body. Itachi chokes and shudders, his grip on Udayl’s hand the only thing that keeps him on his feet. It’s even worse when Father follows her lead and clasps Udayl’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Lady, Lord.” Hums Udayl. “You have raised a fine son. He just gets carried away when his people are threatened.”

Amaterasu preserve him—they’re _bonding_. Mother’s ghostly laugh is audible to everyone, judging by the shocked gasps and the crystal-tear rolling down the golden-Lord’s cheek. Father sends another lick of flame to light up the marks on Udayl’s torso, visible through the linen of his robes.

Alright, time to wrap this up. This kind of deliberate interaction with the supernatural is always taxing and he feels the first signs of his mind bucking in protest. Physically he is fine and dandy, but a mortal mind is not meant to be in situations this intense for this long. Gentle meditation with a shrine as an intermediary is one thing. Right now he feels like a vicious nose-bleed is just around the corner and less said about the ringing, high-pitched whine in his ears the better.

He opens his heart as far as he can, brings the devotion and love to the forefront of his mind and basks in the answering caresses and demonstrations of care. It’s ever so nice to be loved.

“Well.” He says. “I hope we have cleared up the matter of who, exactly, I serve.” Without the euphoria and the adrenaline from two Gods making themselves comfortable in his fleshy little container, Itachi is left with little more than bitter, stale rage and that is just unhelpful. “We will be taking our leave, now, unless you have some other issues to bring up?”

Lord Elrond, to his credit, is the first one to gather his composure. His eyes are all sorts of dazed when he looks at Itachi, wide and unexpectedly child-like. “No—I—You. My accusations were proven to be utterly baseless. You are welcome in Imladris, now and always. Please—”

“Yes, thank you for that, really, I am very flattered and, ah, grateful for your kindness—” but I would rather you all take a turn stabbing my eyes than spend one moment longer here, thanks. “—I am afraid we are in something of a hurry and—”

Lord Elrond’s face falls slightly, even as a panicked sort of fear spreads on the golden-Lord’s face. Are they _still_ going to keep them here—

“Could we stay?” Asks Silevon, voice pitched low. Since everyone here has enhanced senses other than, perhaps Udayl and even that is questionable, he is heard easily enough. “Just for a day or two? I follow you either way but—I would like to stay. I think you will too, once you have some time to collect yourself.”

Well, shit. He has precisely zero chance to say no to any of his people. What Silevon wants, Silevon gets, and that’s just the law of the land. He sends a questioning look at Udayl, who has already lost all interest in the proceedings and is rumbling something Umbari into Nár’s ear.

“I have no lizard in this race, little red. As a matter of, as you say, political sensitivity, I would suggest you stay. Like it or not, you represent your Dwarves.”

“Please, stay.” Repeats SIlevon. “My time with you is limited. You will be leaving soon, making straight to your mountain and you will be kept from me, then.”

Now hold on.

“Okay, first of all, put those eyes away. You know very well I will do truly inadvisable things if you but ask. Second of all, nobody is keeping anybody from anyone.” He is so outraged by the very notion he actually has to pause, to collect himself. “Woe betides the fool that would try. I did not fight a Goddamn fucking nightmare-monster, just to be kept apart from my family. But fine—look, if you want to stay, we stay.”

He turns to the mute gathering of Elves, in no way capable of internalizing the complicated mix of fear, awe and hope in their faces.

“We are grateful for your hospitality, Lord.” No way is he baring his neck to these— _people_. He settles for a short bow, very much keeping them in his line of sight. “We humbly accept.”

Udayl snorts, a short amused burst of sound, which earns him a dirty look. Polite fictions are the backbone of any society. Itachi can damn-well say the right things even if he can’t bring himself to think them.

“Excellent.” Says Lord Elrond. “Please, my people will—” he breaks off, correctly interpreting Itachi’s absolute unwillingness to deal with any of his people right about now. “—Silevon will show you to our guest quarters. If there is anything, anything at all we can do to make your stay in Imladris more comfortable, please, you need but ask.”

Alright, so the Lord is gracious when he wants to be. You know what to do. With, admittedly, some effort, he plasters a smile on his face and tries to signal a degree of amicability he in no way feels. “Thank you, Lord Elrond. I look forward to our stay here.”

_Fucking hell._ The aftereffects of the adrenaline rush make him twitchy and nervous. He needs to find a way to expel all the restless energy coursing through his body if he is to have any hope of not tearing out a throat or three in their first hour. “As a matter of fact, there is one thing I would humbly request. Could you show us to a training ground? A training ground you are, perhaps, not overly attached to?”

“Of course.” Lord Elrond rushes to accept. “There are many. I could send an assistant to show you later but we can go there together presently if that is your wish?”

On one hand—if he doesn’t do something with his anxious Chakra he might start chewing the walls. On the other—the entourage of Elven fucking gawkers that wanted to _imprison his brother_ —

“Udayl—a spar? Now or later? No weapons.” That at least is a small concession to his conscience. He thought he could stick to his resolution of not fighting his brothers, but it seems in this, like most things, he is but a temptation away from succumbing. What was that one saying—I can resist everything except temptation? If the glove fits…

“Thank Sha-alri.” Says Udayl with feeling. “I shudder to think what either one of us would do otherwise.” He pauses for a moment, looking at Itachi with a strange expression. “Thank you.” He says seriously. “I will try to keep it civilized.”

A bolt of something a lot like shame, but also a lot like gratitude shoots down Itachi’s throat, spreading through his body like lightning. He swallows, uncertain how to respond. “No need to thank me, dear-heart. I would do a lot to make you comfortable. This was, however, for me just as much.”

“Children.” Sighs Silevon under his breath and his fellow Elves gasp in shock. We-ell. Itachi sees how Silevon’s eyes sparkle, and he _knows_ , he just _knows_ Silevon will be babying Itachi—and, possibly, Udayl—as much as he can, in full view of Imladris Elves.

“I don’t suppose you would join us?” Asks Itachi, batting his eyelashes.

“I think not.” Says Silevon. “I will, however, insist on a bath. Partly for my sake, but mostly for yours, Itachi. As soon as you’re done playing. I can see the honey in your hair from here.”

Itachi grins, wide and honest. Silevon’s fussy nagging goes a long way at soothing more bloodthirsty expressions of his, ah, _disquiet_. Udayl is just straight-up confused by this type of interaction. No wonder, really. If anyone—other than Itachi, Gods wept—fussed a day over Udayl, Itachi’d eat his cloak. Perhaps the Sand-warriors, in their own violent ways?

“Your wish,” he says, bowing. “Join us nevertheless? You can watch from the sidelines?” Like fuck is Itachi letting one of his people out of his sight any time soon.

SIlevon tosses his hair, which catches the sun so well it had to have been planned. “Of course I’ll come. I don’t trust you to keep it civil, not for a moment. Who knows what you will do, if I’m not there to keep the peace? Tear up the earth itself, most likely.”

Itachi shares a conspiratorial look with Udayl. “We would never.” He says, with precisely the amount of honesty he feels.

“We are ready now, my Lord,” says Silevon, being the bigger man—or Elf, as the case may be. A pang of irritation goes through Itachi at the appellation—Silevon is not Lord Elrond’s. If anything he’s Lady Galadriel’s. (If anything he’s Itachi’s.) Udayl sends him a deeply amused look and Itachi retaliates by spreading some of the honey on his hair over his smug face.

“Children.” The wealth of exasperation in Silevon’s voice is greatly belied by the way his eyes are dancing in good humour. Not to mention the way his Chakra has gone wispy and soft, utterly unfocused.

“Alright, alright,” Itachi says, throwing in an extra eye-roll for effect. “Silevon is right, Lord Elrond. As you can see, it’s really for the best to let both Udayl and myself exhaust ourselves in somewhat productive ways. Alternatively, if you happen to have a band of Orcs roaming about—”

Udayl perks up, visibly, physically, like a civilian hunting dog that heard something rustle in the bushes.

“Ah—no.” Says Lord Elrond, caught between numb shock and bewilderment. “I am afraid we don’t? Have Orcs? Around?”

Udayl droops, and Itachi bounces up to him and wraps an arm around as much of him as he can—which is not much, admittedly. “Shame. Well—not a shame, not at all. Congratulations on keeping your lands safe and all that. A spar will suffice.”

Silevon hiccups a short strangled laugh, before hiding behind a hastily raised hand. His widened eyes glisten with laughter and his breaths are deep and controlled, like he’s barely keeping himself together.

“Anything to add, darling?” Says Itachi, syrupy-sweet. “Apple of my eye, light of my heart? Anything amiss?”

“No.” SIlevon’s voice is smooth enough, perhaps half a degree higher, but it’s clear he’s laughing at all of them, barely bothering to keep it hidden. “Nothing to add. Please, my Lord. If we could. Proceed.”

A little more of Itachi’s fucking enormous grudge crumbles away at the Lord’s overwhelmed expression. It is still there—it will likely still be there for centuries to come, but it helps, still.

“Wonderful,” Itachi says, twisting his expression into the most childish grimace he knows how to make. Childish is not a good look on him, not when he’s a hairsbreadth away from dealing mostly indiscriminate death and destruction. It just brings out the deranged glint in his eye and the bloodthirsty curve to his smile. It’s very effective, is the point. Judging by how the elves rustle like agitated birds re-settling their feathers, they agree. All except, it has to be said, the golden-Lord who looks like a lot of his personal holy days have come early, and he has just found a great big pile of gifts on his pillows on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday.

Interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back from a bit of a break. I'm writing like, 209347 different stories so the updates will be?? wacky. 
> 
> <3


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